Whitney Barbetti

I liked seeing imperfections; I liked that he wore a bit of exhaustion on his face.

Words could bite.

was emotionally bankrupt.

Emotions were always vague, fleeting little things. I felt them in small spurts, similar to how one might feel a drop of water hit their skin and wonder if it would start raining. Except for me, it never rained.

Some of us have scars that aren’t meant to be seen

I get drunk at home, alone, so the only danger I am is to myself

“What?” Everett asked.

I lifted my eyes to his. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Sure you did. Just not with your voice.”

Everett was dying. But he was more alive than I was.

I could get drunk off his words.

“Because you hate and you love the way I make you feel.”