I won't do it.

In a flash I find myself reading the lines, its handwriting, that letter inclined to the right catches me in reading.

I grew up believing for a long time that the people I loved gave me a little bit of the same way, love. It is ridiculous, stupidly pathetic to eat the story, the fantasy of being loved, especially when you receive that affection, and you don't know that it is only based on hypocrisy.

They said that if I had a little gratitude for them I would do my part to be better, of course they substituted the word "perfection", but I was always clear, I wanted it to be perfect, especially when Nickolas had died, leaving me that heavy burden, to be like him, who always had accomplished goals in the palm of his hand. I, on the other hand, was so withdrawn so many times, absent from class and skipping over issues that I couldn't achieve, far from my goals, but an obligation to be someone in this world.

For a moment I tried, I gave up, then the pressure took its place a