She was a painfully average girl. Always had been, always will be. She didn’t hate anything or anyone, she was just indifferent. She was indifferent to people who hated her, and indifferent to people who loved her. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore. When she could, when she actually cared, and tried, she’d just get hurt, so she stopped. She was a nice girl, who despite her indifference went the extra mile for people, because she wanted them to be happy, and all she wanted was to be thanked. But not one ever thanked her. She was tired of being overlooked. She was tired of being indifferent. She was tired. She wanted to be appreciated, that was all. She woke up every afternoon, in rumpled clothes she wore the day before. Late nights took a toll on her. But she woke up, average, indifferent, unappreciated, everyday. She still woke up. Because she still had hope that today she would be appreciated, today she would be loved. Today she would be thanked.
About
fick-le /ˈfɪkəl/–adjective
1. likely to change, esp. due to caprice, irresolution, or instability; casually changeable: fickle weather.
2. not constant or loyal in affections: a fickle lover.
I live by these quotes:
"In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me. "
"I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it. "
Both are from Edgar Allen Poe
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