Pong's room was quiet, except for the ragged breathing. Her pillow was wet. Her throat hurt from crying for hours—possibly more. She had huddled on the floor, knees against her chest, hoping the pain in her heart would subside.
It didn't.
Shiphier's words replayed in her mind like venom.
"People like you should die."
"You need to cure your lesbian disease."
No matter how hard she tried to close them out, they cut at her like knives.
But then, something within Pong changed.
A spark of heat. A hint of fury. Her shaking fingers fisted as she sat up straight, rubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand—ferociously, as if she was scraping away every painful memory.
She stood.
The hurt remained. But now it was shrouded in flames.
No more tears," she breathed to herself, her eyes tightening. "No more waiting on love from someone who regards me as damaged."
