The first sip—the sugary sweetness burst across my tongue.
My eyes instantly burned with heat.
Since my father Michael had died, a cup of bubble tea had become a luxury.
I hid the rest of the money in my shoe insole and lay in bed that night, smiling secretly to myself.
I finally had a secret.
By the second week, I grew bolder.
With my earnings, I bought a movie ticket and sat alone in the back corner watching a comedy.
The jokes on screen tugged at the corners of my lips.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, terrified someone might hear me laugh too loudly.
…
“Emily, your journal entries lately don’t feel right.”
Laura flipped through my Misery Journal, her brows knitting.
“The sadness lacks soul. Are you phoning it in?”
My heartbeat spiked. “No, I write seriously every day.”
“Seriously?” she sneered. “Look at this line: ‘I starved again today.’ It’s too flat! Too plain!”
She slammed the notebook onto the table.
“When you used to write about being hungry, the despair dripped off the page. Now what? Are you sneaking food behind my back?”
Panic surged. “No, really, I didn’t.”
“Then why are you coming home so late? Since when do study groups run until eight o’clock?”
“Because… the coursework is heavier.”