I could see her screen from the bed—she was scrolling through comments on her stories
as I read one of Alexander Hamilton’s Federalist essays for history.
I kept reading the words but not understanding them, then circling back, reading the same paragraph over and over again.
Daisy was quiet for a few minutes, but at last said, “I try really hard not to judge you, Holmesy, and it’s slightly infuriating when you judge me.”
“I’m not judging—” “I know you think you’re poor or whatever, but you know nothing about being actually poor.”
“Okay, I’ll shut up about it,” I said. “You’re so stuck in your head,” she continued.
“It’s like you genuinely can’t think about anyone else.” I felt like I was getting smaller.
“I’m sorry, Holmesy, I shouldn’t say that. It’s just frustrating sometimes.” When I didn’t respond, she kept talking.
“I don’t mean that you’re a bad friend or anything. But you’re slightly tortured,
and the way you’re tortured is sometimes also painful for, like, everyone around you.”
“Message received,” I said. “I don’t mean to sound like a bitch.” “You don’t,” I said.
“Do you know what I mean, though?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said.
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