I haven’t slept. Hair unwashed, unbrushed, disheveled. 3-day-old waterproof mascara smudged under my eyes. I stumbled out of bed because I don’t see the point in trying to sleep anymore and head downstairs.
“You look pretty,” he says, as he greets me first thing in the morning.
I roll my eyes, “uh, thanks.”
I can hear he means it, but my inner voice automatically rejects the idea his words could possibly be true.
What kind of sink hole am I in that a sincere compliment is met with disbelief—even anger?