It pains me to look at you. To see the sharp, probing mind behind that vacant stare, wrapped in that lanky frame struck in a pose that screams I-can't-be-bothered.
I don't understand why you don't want to do well just for the joy of doing well, for the simple pleasure of knowing you've given it your best, instead of for another promised handphone or extortionate amounts of money.
I don't know why you can't hear your own voice when you talk to the ones that love you most. Is it because we didn't buy you a pen drive or a new handphone or iPod upon your demand, that you think we don't love you? Is it because your friends give you these things for free and that they seem to be the root of your happiness and we are the necessary evil?
I don't get how you don't see what kind of hurt you've caused us.
How Mum cries for you because she doesn't want you to grow up not being able to look after yourself when she dies; or how much stress and worry you caused Dad when you left the house without telling us yesterday - he was going to go out and look for you all night.
Did you know that the one who tracked you down was Cheryl? And that the whole time you were missing, she thought of nothing else but you, even though she had three papers in a row the next day and little time to study. And you called her a bitch.
I don't know what goes on in your head. I don't know how you can do this to them. You're right. I don't seem to know anything at all about you because I can't get past the aggressive tone or forgive your stinging retorts and rejections.
I didn't ever think you could hurt me this much when I first picked you up fifteen years ago.
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