Page 12 of Paper Thin Love

His eyes look sad and hopeful, like the last cupcake in a fancy New York bakery. It’s starting to get dried out, old, stale, just like Jared’s patience with me.

“I’m tired.” I fake a yawn.Please give up on me, Jared.

He steps closer, and my nose fills with the scent of his body wash. His eyes drift to my bare arms. I follow his gaze and see two small oval bruises from his index and thumb fingers. He looks sorry but doesn’t apologize.

“I could make you happy,” he mutters.

I hug myself, covering up his marks.“Jared, we’ve been over this. I don’t want a boyfriend. I just want to focus on school and ballet.”

He snorts and steps closer, reaching for my hand, forcing it lower to reveal the faint bruise.“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Then stop. You hurting me doesn’t make me want you.”

“If I stopped, would you give us a chance again?”

“Blackmail isn’t the way to a healthy relationship.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” he challenges me.

My forehead furrows. Does he want me to? Just as I hope he will break me so I won’t have to dance, does he hope I’ll snitch on him so my father will end him?

Yet again, we all want to escape but can’t.

“You know why. I won’t be the reason you are killed.” I jerk out of his hold.“Stop.” I take a step back, eyes pleading. This, all of us, we are so fucked up.

His lips begin to curl.“No,” he responds.

I made a mistake. I gave him unleashed control. He knows I don’t want his death on my hands; now I have no ammunition.

“How does it feel not to get what you want, Mila?” His eyes seem to come to life.

I shrug.“It feels like my life every day, Jared. You want power. You have it over me. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I turn away.“Now you know why I ended it. You never wanted me. You just wanted the power my last name fed you.”

Night hugs me, hides me. I love the darkness, because it’s the only time we can see hope. The small stars above, flickering old light that has slowly reached us—that’s hope. It’s faint, not always seen, but it’s there. It’s not fresh or new, not powerful and warming like the sun. Hope is cold, slumbering in the distance, waiting for you to reach it.

I tip my head back and look at the stars. Tonight, I can only see a few because of the thick clouds. One day, I’ll reach those stars, grasp my hope, and be free.

Another day is almost done, and I danced it away again. It’s nine at night, but the yard is still alive. Trees are scattered and filled with fairy lights. Silverstone Preparatory likes to go over the top when it comes to making its students comfortable. I don’t hate the school; some of my teachers are actually awesome, and I do learn a lot.

It could be worse. It always could be.

I try to stay positive and smile, even when I’m dying inside. I read a psychology article once about the power of mind control. It stated we could control our minds. We have the power to change how we think. If you tell yourself you’re miserable, then you will be. It’s all about trickery.

I tell myself every day when I’m slipping my foot into the pointe shoe that I love ballet again. I tell myself every night that I love my life. I tell myself I should be happy; it could always be worse. I’ve got a shelter over my head, the best education, and a father who loves me even if he doesn’t see how much I hate my life. I keep repeating, and waiting for my mind to be tricked.

“Hey, Mila,” Derrick shouts as he waves at me. Derrick is a‘de Lorraine,’as in the cryptocurrency tycoons de Lorraine’s. He’s stunning and plays on the rugby team, which means he and his friends can’t wear shirts, at least they never do. I’m not complaining; who would when they get to ogle at a body like that?

I lied to Jared. I don’t just want to focus on school and ballet. I want to taste life, just not with him. I want sparks when I kiss.

I bite my lip and wave back,“Hey.”Did that sound okay?I run a hand over my high bun, hoping to smooth down the flyaways.

The school lawn is filled with students. Some study, others drink, some make out, and others get high. We’re all just drowning our emptiness with some kind of vice.“Mommy and Daddy issues” is a checkbox every single student here checks.

“Hey, Milly, come join us.”

That’s Maximilian Sinclair. Take a moment to fictitiously vomit over his parents’choice of a name. I’ve been in his class for six years, and he still can’t remember my name. He doesn’t have the excuse of Mr.LeBlanc hitting his head either.

I roll my eyes.“It’s Mila.” Why do I bother replying?

---