"What the fuck are you doing?!" I yelled, as Dylan shoved the door open.
Dylan didn't even look at me. He just stormed in, and started ripping my drawers open.
He wasn't even checking them, just flipping them upside down. My sketchbooks hit the floor. A stack of class notes scattered across the rug. A box of sculpting tools crashed onto its side.
"Dylan, seriously, stop!" I lunged forward, trying to grab his arm.
He just shoved past me, as I stumbled back, catching my reflection in the mirror.
Even completely panicked and pissed off, I looked... fragile. I hate it. I hate that no matter how mad I get, my face always stays soft, and my skin shows every single flush of blood when I'm stressed. It makes people like Dylan think they can just crush me. It makes everyone look at me like I'm something to possess or break.
Behind me, a sharp, terrified hiss split the room.
Poppy.
She'd bolted off the bed and jammed herself into the tiny gap between my nightstand and the wall.
