"You're too sensitive," he said behind the newspaper he was reading.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"Everything I say you take the wrong way and then spoil any form of conversation with your emotional reaction. I never know what I can say without you spouting off on me," he replied like he was tasting bitter medicine.
"I'm not reacting to what you are saying. I react to how you say it. I can feel your tone and it reverberates inside me like a clanging bell. You say one thing but it means something else because of how you reply to me. I can hear it. You know, being sensitive isn't always a bad thing."
"Tell me what's good about it because from where I'm sitting, it is just a constant overreaction."
"Oh, forget it.... You wouldn't believe me anyways because you're already convinced its a curse," she said as she left the room in tears.
He continued reading the paper....... just as he always did.
She went off to hide inside her imagination.
The bloom fell off the flower. It lay like a dying soldier beside the plant she had forgotten to water.