I Hate Him


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Ashton Fletcher Irwin. He was the beginning of her end. The artist who painted her very own destruction. Yet, she still loved him. Loved him more than life itself.

Then, one day, he disappeared. He never left a note, text, voicemail, call. Nothing but all the memories they had made together.

I just don’t understand. She thinks, Why? Was I not enough?

“Of course you are my dear.” Her inner goddess softly tells her. “ You are much more than enough. Don’t let any ignorant boy, or girl, tell you otherwise, Andrea.” Her inner goddess, once again, tells her in a soft, concerning, mother like voice.

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