donna.
she's reminded of harold smith, the way she's hoarding stories from outside: she doesn't go back to school, but each day donna brings a folder from her teachers, and each day she tells her what she can (or will). she lies, of course, about what's said about laura, who in turn pretends she doesn't notice. it's not as if she's got room left to talk. she's left wondering more what donna tells them.
she never, ever asks --- not that it would matter --- but the whole ordeal has made her quite the celebrity in the halls, she's sure, and donna loves to feel important. laura doesn't begrudge her that; she'll be liking fussing over james, too, whose calls she's been avoiding, which is actually perfect. it's a couple less things she has to worry about.
the small talk, though, is what's killing her; acting like she's just some classmate with homework, like they didn't share everything, once, their whole lives. worst of all? she can't tell which of them started it. she wants to tell her say what's on your mind, but she's afraid to know.
“--- hey, how’s mike?” laura asks instead, shaking the paranoid bullshit as best she can, trying to sound interested. “you dump him yet?”
/ @silencelamb ♡
