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When the bathroom door closed, uselessly, I put my head down trying to hide the shame that invaded me, as the tears made their own journey, descending until they fell on the floor.

I felt so stupid to be crying.

That young man, master, master of many employees. That one who didn't want to bring any to his desolate mansion. He didn't deserve me to shed my tears. That I choked with my sobs, that I felt I couldn't breathe, that I didn't deserve that my chest ached and my voice became so irregular, that my eyesight was blurred to the point of not recognizing beyond my nose.

I did not deserve anything.

The door I hadn't even dared to close to the bedroom served as a quick escape, I went out into the living room and rushed up the stairs so fast that I stumbled a couple of steps before I got to the top, almost rolled, clinging to the banister.

Taking long gasps of air, I fought the panic by pulling air into my lungs. I hated myself, for having this stress disorder, I wanted to be normal and