the crack of a gunshot

Éponine never had to deal with this.  Cosette wasn’t her friend, was just someone out of a distant and honey-colored childhood that stood in stark contrast to her darker-hued current life.  But the fact is, I’m not Éponine, though I could play her with agonizing clarity, down to the feeling of that ball entering my hand and cracking through my chest to emerge out of my back.

I could play that part well.  It’s how I feel now.

I wrote, nights ago, that how you get over a boy is that you imagine there is a girl.  That by doing so you are not lying to yourself, because there is always a girl, or was, or will be.  Regardless if he knew her or knows her or will know her, she is there and he loved, loves, or will love her.

That girl was supposed to be an abstract ideal, though, not potentially someone I know.

But of course, I could be wrong.  In fact, I’m sure I’m wrong–right?  But I don’t have much of an ego at the moment, just a heart I can spill on the pages, just a self I can’t look at in the mirror.  He doesn’t have to love her.  He just has to like her more than me.  He just has to like her, and not me, and everything shatters because it proves a point I didn’t want proven: that no one can stand me.  That I am abhorrent and detestable and all those adjectives turned nouns turned proper nouns because in my mind they can stand as synonyms of my name.

I was sleeping, but I heard her voice.  And under the squeal of rage I could hear a shout of joy.  Triumph.  My defeat.

It would never have happened if he knew I was awake.


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