Surely this is worse for her.
From the window in the attic, it looks like my life would be a lot easier if I just cared a little less. Either that, or it’s my imagination that gets the best of me. Without my imagination I wouldn’t dream of what my life might be like elsewhere. Maybe without my imagination I’d learn to accept that I live here rather than hoping for a day that some passerby would see me on the other side of this window, take pity on me, and help me break whatever enchantment seems to be trapping me in this cage.
Then again, I’m not even sure that’s really what I want.
I’ve escaped a similar situation once before, but I barely survived it. All I really got out of it was learning that there is seemingly no place for people like me. At least this time I was the one that made the choice to be here, so the only person I could blame is myself.
I don't know, I guess I just expected it to feel... better?
Maybe someone who actually keeps their imagination in check wouldn’t have tricked themselves into thinking this would be better. I’m probably just being ungrateful and selfish anyway. 
is supporting me after all.
She’s the one risking her place in society to help me… Surely this is worse for her.