When he tried to come closer again, I grabbed the bottle of shower gel from the shelf and hurled it at his head.
Thomas didn't dodge and got hit, a bump forming instantly.
He became furious.
"Enough is enough! I've been humbling myself to make you happy, what more do you want?"
I pointed at him, my hand trembling with anger.
"Get lost!"
Thomas, clutching his injured head, yelled back at me.
"You're being unreasonable!"
……
Thomas left and didn't come back that night.
In fact, I didn't care where he went.
But Olivia was eager for me to know.
She posted on her Instagram, clearly taunting me.
Olivia put. [Since I was five, my parents stopped telling me bedtime stories. But tonight, I heard one again. In his eyes, I'm still just a little girl.]
The accompanying picture was of a hand holding a storybook.
Others might not recognize it.
But I knew at a glance—it was Thomas's hand.
He barely bothered to comfort me, yet he had the patience to read Olivia a bedtime story.
The comparison was truly painful.
Her post quickly garnered numerous comments, almost all from people I knew.
Friend A. [Wow, so blatant! Aren't you afraid Ning will see this?]