I scroll through my phone, deleting pictures of Axel and me on my Instagram that I never used before I dated him. Blocking him on every social media account I have. I want to do more than that, more than just deleting and blocking. But what else can I do?
Rory comes into my room in the middle of this. I don’t want to talk to her.
“Ella?” I don’t answer. I don’t say a word. Still scrolling.
“I’m sorry.” Nothing.
“He was yours, not mine, and I shouldn’t have let him.”
“Talk to me, please! I feel bad enough already.”
On and on and on. I wish I could say I felt guilty for not talking, but I don’t.
I remember a time when I was happy. When life was kittens and rainbows and cupcakes and life was easy. Too easy.
Middle school wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t not fun. I had so many friends. No, I wasn’t quite popular, but I didn’t care. My parents doted on me then. When it wasn’t hard to love me. I had Friday sleepovers every week, I was a gymnast.
When I turned fifteen and started high school, everything changed. My self-esteem plummeted. I had probably forty or more friends before–and then I suddenly had six or seven.
Now I have two. If you count Marjorie, the poor soul. She tries so hard to be friends with the depressed girl who hates everyone. Axel, for his part, doesn’t really care. He’s cheerful and lovable. My polar opposite.