“Pink is for girls,” ew.

“Here you go love, a little something for the baby,” an elderly voice says. Turning, I am handed a brightly coloured package. I grin, an animalistic part of me takes it greedily, ripping apart the wrapping. A bright pink tutu glares at me, mocking me with its unruly netting.

“It’s… very pink,” I say. A kind smile plasters over my face, my insides revolting at the colour.

“Of course, it’s a girl after all. One day she will make a lovely little dancer.”

“Pink’s just not my colour… but I’m sure she will love it!” I reply.

“Pink is for girls, blue for boys,” he sternly says.

“Well, I’m not a fan of pink.”

“Well that’s because you’re older, pink represents youth, innocence, the cheeks of a blushing bride.” I grit my teeth harder.

“Thank you,” I barely manage as I walk away.


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