My finger hovers over her endless texts. Some are telling me about her favorite music—classical. Her favorite film—Pride and Prejudice, all versions. Her favorite food—pizza—that she doesn’t get to eat a lot because of her disciplined routine. Some are selfies of her.
Those stopped after I ignored the first few.
Her last text was prior to the deliberate loss of control on my part.
Deliberate because I meant to push her away. So far away that she’d stop looking at me with those glittery eyes and parted lips.
It was my last bit of courtesy for someone who gave me food and didn’t hand me over to her brother on a silver platter.
That incident happened a week ago.
She’s kept her distance since—even during lunch. Before, she glued herself to my side and chattered happily until I got up and left.
Now, her chosen victims are either Remi or Bran. On and on, she talks to them about the last book she read or film she watched.
They listen to her, engage, and even reply.
Unlike me.
Ava even asked her if she’s finally given up on me. She laughed and subtly changed the subject.
She did give up.
Finally.
If I’d known it would be that easy, I would’ve shown her a hint of who I truly am a long time ago. That way, I wouldn’t have had to put up with her disturbing cheerfulness.
I click on the last selfie she sent two weeks ago. Her hair falls on either side of her face and she has both hands under her chin. She’s too young, oozing with an irritating type of happiness that grates on my nerves.
Yes, I’m young, too, but only in age. I’ve never felt young since the massacre.
A notification of a text shows up at the top of my phone. Did I somehow send a reaction or something?
That’s when I realize I’ve been staring at her selfie for about five minutes.
A long fucking time.
I scroll to the text she sent just now.
Annika:So I’ve been thinking.
Creighton:I’m surprised you do that before talking.
The dots indicating she’s typing appear and disappear.
*Screaming emoji*
*Dead sticker*
*It’s happening GIF*
Annika:OMT! Did you actually reply? Say the secret words or I’m reporting you for kidnapping Creighton.
What the fuck is she on about now?
Annika:I’m serious. I’ll report you right now. I swear to Tchaikovsky. That’s what OMT means if you were wondering. Oh my Tchaikovsky.
Creighton:You talk too much.