She ruined me.
They ruined me.
It sounds dramatic, doesn't it? Something a child might say after losing a toy or being left behind at a party. But I am not a child, and what I lost was never a toy. It was everything. It was trust. It was belief. It was the version of myself I thought would survive.
There was a time I saw the good in people—even when they didn't deserve it. I forgave slights. I smiled when it hurt. I stitched grace into every word I spoke, hoping it would make me worthy. I was not born cruel.
But that was before her.
Before Helen.
I wanted to be like her once. I think that's what makes this so bitter. I admired her. I loved her in that strange, dangerous way one loves a god—unreachable, unknowable, shining too bright to look at for long.
And she loved me, too. Or so I believed.
