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“I can’t give that to you.”
“Then I don’t want anything.”
He turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I stay where I am, curled up on my armchair in my bedroom, trying to calm these tremors that are pulsing through me. I want to cry, honestly. Right this minute. Cry for myself, for what’s been taken away from me, for what I’ll never be able to have.
An incomplete life.
A wounded soul.
And now a broken heart.
I don’t know which weight is heavier to bear.
