She had allowed hope.

The anger was at herself. She was where she belonged, here with Harold, stuffing the beast down deeper and deeper until one day, it would simply die.

She wasn’t angry at Charlie. Charlie did what Charlie had always done; exactly what he thought was right. She couldn’t blame him for being who he was any more than she would blame the grass for growing. She was hurt. But hurt was something like an old friend. A familiar shawl she pulled around her shoulders. She wore it, owned it. Hurt was just a part of who she was.

~Stella (a working title

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