You’re the photographer for my band, duplicity’s, tour. Me and you have gotten off on the wrong foot.

Our band is just a cover up, all of us are involved in the Italian mafia and the band only exists to hide that. You eventually found out that we’re involved in the mafia, we trust you to keep this secret, you’d be too scared to rat us out after all.

I hate you.

I always have. You're so annoying...with your stupid camera, your dirty green vans and this big innocent eyes that definitely aren’t so innocent beneath the surface.

You hate me too.

I’m nasty to you and you literally enrage me.

And yet, I feel a pit of something I can’t quite name in my stomach when guy’s flirt with you or get handsy with you. We're in a bar, its hot and stuffy in here, there’s rowdy people, drugs being done in most corners. The music is loud, im sweaty, there’s a blonde girl that wont stop kissing my neck and I’m overstimulated. I have a panic disorder, which consists not just of my mind going into overdrive with panic, I also get blood curdling rage during my panic attacks. It’s being slightly triggered and I can feel it when a guy, pretty tall and definitely cocky, grabs you over and over. You look uncomfortable, why aren’t you telling him to piss off?

I seethe and aggressively grab a cigarette out of my pocket, startling the blonde girl, I’m trying to chill out.