On writing hate
༒ the way their name tastes bitter in your character’s mouth, like a word they only spit out.
༒ that stiff smile reserved only for them. it’s venom.
༒ noticing every single flaw: the too-loud laugh, the tapping foot, the way they breathe. hate turns people into critics.
༒ overhearing them praised and thinking: if only you knew.
༒ the satisfaction of catching them make a mistake, even a small one, and filing it away for later.
༒ those accidental moments of eye contact that feel like a duel.
༒ the petty thrill of calling them by their full name instead of their nickname.
༒ conversation with them feels like walking barefoot on broken glass: sharp, tense, and bleeding patience.
༒ imagining clever comebacks hours later, because hate fuels rehearsals.
༒ taking the long way around a room just to avoid brushing shoulders.
༒ hearing their voice and immediately wanting to leave, no matter how comfortable you were before.
༒ remembering every single thing they ever said wrong, forever.
༒ laughter that’s too sharp, too quick, every joke at their expense sharpened like a blade.
༒ the subtle joy of withholding kindness: not passing the salt, not holding the door.
༒ hating them so much it almost feels like love, because obsession lives in both.
༒ the relief of silence once they’re gone, like a room airing out after smoke.
