“What is this?” Noah asks, holding up what was once some sort of recognizable food covered in mold inside a ziplock bag.
“The shame I don’t want to talk about,” I cup my hand on the side of my eyes to pretend I can’t see it, blocking my view of him.
“Willowbee, you’ve got to take better care of yourself.” He sighed, tossing the bag in the trash can. I know what he’s saying are words of love and not necessarily judgment.
Thankfully, Noah brought Millie’s playpen, because I actually don’t trust my floor with her around. She would more than likely find something she shouldn’t and hurt herself. Or even find some other horrible rotten food and eat it. I need to clean, but can’t really say I know how.
“Would you stop trying to clean my apartment and just help me find CC.” Damn cat has hid
