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Summary
“That means I’ll see you next year,” Lottie said, smiling like they were friends and not just two people who sometimes nodded at each other in the halls.
Natalie would lay in bed later that night and wonder if that was what it felt like to be seen. To have the layers peeled back like the skin of an orange, to be admired pith and all. She wondered if Lottie felt that way all the time, like the whole world was watching, hanging on her every move. If it got exhausting to be adored. Or if she even felt that way at all, if being stared at like the most important thing in the room was so normal that she didn’t even notice.
Somehow, she didn’t think so.
A pathetic, “Uh yeah, I guess you will,” was all she could muster.
And as Lottie walked away, Natalie couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow irreversibly screwed herself.
Icarus, meet fucking sun.
(The years before, during, and after Natalie’s descent into hell. 1991–?)