MIA POV
The note is still in my hand when I start writing.
You are capable of much better than this.
Six words. Red ink. His handwriting sharp, slanted, no wasted curves. I've read it so many times the paper has a crease from my thumb pressing the same spot over and over.
I set it on my desk. I look at it. Then I open my laptop and start typing.
It is 11:47 PM.
I am angry.
Good. I write better angry.
The first essay was me trying to sound smart. I know that now, sitting in my dorm with Cara asleep across the room, her white noise machine humming its stupid little hum. That essay was me performing, choosing safe words and safe arguments because I was scared of what would happen if I said what I actually thought.
He saw through it. Somehow, he saw through all of it.
I hate that.
I also and I'm not admitting this out loud, ever think he might be right.
