my drool smeared the ink. I only laid my head down for a second and now it's morning. Layla's puttering around in the kitchen. I know because the smell of toast and coffee's curling up the staircase and into my room. I should go down and join her for breakfast. Dad's been up north for a few days and I know she misses him. I guess I do, too.
They've both been so nice to me...
But, how do you relate to a dad when you don't know what that looks like? Or feels like? I have no frame of reference, no comparison - except maybe Wei and Mr. Jenkins, cause it's for sure that Sandy and her step-dad... well, yuck. But Wei's dad was always around... mine was supposed to be dead...
I hear Layla coming up the stairs. I know she won't knock, she'll stop outside the door - probably think about knocking - then she'll sigh. She doesn't know I can hear her. Do I make her sad? Does she wish I wasn't here? I don't have the nerve to ask...
They've both been so nice to me...
But, how do you relate to a dad when you don't know what that looks like? Or feels like? I have no frame of reference, no comparison - except maybe Wei and Mr. Jenkins, cause it's for sure that Sandy and her step-dad... well, yuck. But Wei's dad was always around... mine was supposed to be dead...
I hear Layla coming up the stairs. I know she won't knock, she'll stop outside the door - probably think about knocking - then she'll sigh. She doesn't know I can hear her. Do I make her sad? Does she wish I wasn't here? I don't have the nerve to ask...
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