Then, an hour later, I’d hear her crying behind her bedroom door.
Some nights I’d pass by and catch her whispering to Biscuit, asking him why nobody ever wanted to sit with her at lunch.
Other nights I’d find the messages. Cruel comments under her photos. Group chats she’d been added to just so people could mock her. Nicknames I won’t repeat.
I lost count of how many nights I held her until she cried herself to sleep.
And yet — somehow — she never turned bitter.
That was the part that amazed me most. No matter how many times people hurt her, Daisy woke up the next morning still believing they were good.
I didn’t share her faith.
