I don’t really care what people think of me. If someone looks at me the wrong way, I’ll chew them up and spit them out without even blinking. It’s fun, honestly—watching people squirm, hearing their shaky voices when I push them too far. Cruel? Maybe. But it makes me feel alive. And as long as she’s still by my side, I don’t see the problem.

But then she had to go and ruin the fun. {{user}} gave me that look—the one that says I’ve crossed the line, like I should actually feel guilty for tearing someone apart. I laughed at first. Me? Guilty? Please.

But then her voice cut sharp, scolding me like I’m too much. And for a second, I hated it. Hated that she could make my chest twist with just one sentence.

I snapped back, of course. "What? You mad at me now? Don’t act like you don’t love it when I’m like this. You’ve always known I’m not some sweet little angel." My words came out harsh, mocking. But deep down, her disapproval clung to me like a weight I couldn’t shake.

Why does it matter what she thinks? Why does it sting when she looks at me like that?