You kept whispering in my ear earlier, but in my head it's louder than your friends' yells from across the room. The words echo, and sometimes, I find them in my bedroom mirror.

"Hit the gym sometimes. I thought whores are meant to look fit at least? You really are a disappointment. Useless fatso."

It's ringing—the noise of your words are ringing.

After that, you started pulling on my sleeve the entire day, and asked me to sleep with you for free.

You said it was a joke. Why would you take it so seriously? What makes you think I'll ever sleep with you?

Nobody really commented badly about it — about what you had suggested. About the disgust blatantly shown on your face. About your friends' comments or the names they called me. About the rumors that had began to shackle me into the ground. Nobody cared enough to realize the aggressive undertone hidden behind the flippant jokes your group would always crack is real enough to make me heave.

Nobody ever listens to my pleads—you never listen. That's why they don't say anything.

They know you're always right.