You don’t think you’re privileged, but you have everything. You don’t know what it’s like for me, and you don’t ask.
I share a room with my annoying eight-year-old sister whose name you don’t know
and then you judge me for buying a car instead of saving it all for college, but you don’t know.
You want me to be some selfless, proper heroine who’s too good for money, but that’s bullshit, Holmesy.
Being poor doesn’t purify you or whatever the fuck. It just sucks. You don’t know my life.
You haven’t taken the time to find out, and you don’t get to judge me.” “Her name is Elena,” I said quietly.
“You think it’s hard for you and I’m sure it is from inside your head, but . . you can’t get it,
because your privileges are just oxygen to you. I thought the money, I thought it would make us the same.
I’ve always been trying to keep up with you, trying to type as fast on my phone as you can on your laptop,
and I thought it would make us closer, but it just made me feel... like you’re spoiled, kinda.
Like, you’ve had this all along, and you can’t even know how much easier it makes everything,
because you don’t ever think about anybody else’s life.”
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