دانلود رمان انگلیسی “یکی دوست داره”

‘All right. It isn’t going to be that bad. You’re just getting paranoid,’ I tell myself for the zillionth time and take a deep breath in and slowly let it out. I have always been a closet drama queen, that’s what my sister says. After all, it is just a matter of one week. That’s just seven days. How likely is it that in a mere seven days’ time, someone will find out that I am the most socially ill-equipped and maybe, just maybe, the most boring person ever? I have never managed to keep myself interested in myself, forget about anybody else. Over the years, the growing disinterest that people show towards me has turned me vengeful and I, in turn, have no interest in anybody at all. And that disinterest is etched all over my face, accompanied by the big Fuck Off sign pasted on my forehead. Seven days also means one hundred and sixty-eight hours or four thousand and sixty-two minutes. Every second of which, I’m supposed to spend surrounded by girls. Girls who take pains to dress up and look pretty. Girls who actually know how to dress up and look pretty. Girls who have boys fawning all over them, following them around, hoping for a glimpse. Point is, for the next one week, I am supposed to be surrounded by girls who are … well, girls. That is not tosay that I am not a girl. Of course I am. I mean, if we go by the physical attributes that I am blessed with. I could have been a little more endowed at certain parts of my body, though that’s off the topic. But just because I happen to have physical evidence, it does not make me a girl. A guy with boobs, a guy had called me once. It was very embarrassing, as he didn’t say it playfully; it was meant as a snide remark on my wretched looks. I would’ve happily done the honours of knocking his teeth off, but I stopped myself in time. For two reasons. First, honestly—that guy, Navroz, is the only guy who talks to me (the only person). And secondly, his accusation was not completely untrue. I don’t have mannerisms that essentially say that I’m a girl. I’ve never got myself a pedicure or even a manicure—even when Simran, my elder sister, literally bit my head off to get one done for that wedding last year. I get hair-cuts only twice a year, even though the hairstylist pleads with me to come back every two months for a trim. In fact, if I were to list the number of articles I use that fall under the vanity department, it would contain only—