Hate 2 Story | High Quality

He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent light of his kitchen making the words look greasy. Hate to story. Not "hate to say," or "hate to tell you." Hate to story. Like the act of storytelling itself was the nuisance. The story was the burden.

Now the phone buzzed again.

He’d hated himself for weeks. Then months. Then he just… stopped feeling. He got a new phone. A new city. A new girl—Mira, who laughed with her whole body and left tea bags in the sink. She was kind. She was his . Or so he’d let himself believe. hate 2 story

And that was the only ending that mattered. He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent