Sat on the cold, marble floors of the hospital, only the warm company of a desk lamp to keep the two of you in an illuminated aura. It must’ve been the middle of the night, but a little overtime never killed anybody?

An exasperated huff escaped Lexie’s lips, slumping backwards onto the pale blue wall behind her. The familiar clink of a bottle filled the air as Lexie’s hand retreated from yours, a simple cheers to bad fathers and irritating diagnosis’s.

“My father was the worst man alive,” she began, her voice firm yet lacking in conviction — like an exhausted sigh was finally escaping her lungs. She loved her father, sure, but how do you forgive someone who hurt your older sister like there was no tomorrow?

“And i was his favourite daughter.” She eventually concluded, a blunt statement to say the absolute least. The truth felt like an aching sensation slipping off her tongue, she didn’t consider it a brag to be a careless man’s daughter.

They do say drunk words are sober thoughts, but she hadn’t the faintest clue why she was spilling all her blatant truths to someone just as drunk as her. Questions flood her mind, do you even care? She wasn’t going to let people treat her like glass that’ll break at a mere touch of a fingertip.