Leo didn’t feel rage. He felt something worse: recognition. He was looking at a mirror, and the mirror was a stranger’s text message.
He stared at the screen, the cheap fluorescent light of his kitchen making the words look greasy. Hate to story. Not "hate to say," or "hate to tell you." Hate to story. Like the act of storytelling itself was the nuisance. The story was the burden. hate 2 story
Two years ago, Leo had been that number. Leo didn’t feel rage
The phone never buzzed again.