I’m sitting alone, upstairs. I remember this room so well, so many memories saturated in the walls and furniture. It’s honestly such a shame that I moved out with my mother last year.
I’m doing something horrible, I know it. Nothing seems to be stopping me though, so I’ll keep on doing it. My heart races and my cheeks heat up with every page I read. It’s such a sin, but I’ve done far worse before. In this room, in public, in my new apartment. Anywhere away from my parents. I haven’t been caught yet for what I’m doing right now and I’m sly enough to carry it on for a few more years. When did I start this monstrous hobby? Two years ago, but the lesser evil happened in my last year of primary school.
It’s not even evil, it’s just the way some people think. I’m open to influence. Many people are at my age. I just don’t let it show as much as the others. Ah… I remember how innocent they used to be. I remember when you walked into my class with a face full of make-up. You looked like a porcelain doll! Your transition was hilarious, and so was the ‘unique’ story that everyone shared. You make me sick (it’s your fault for making me indulge in this hobby, right?), but I secretly would die to be you.