
The pen slipped from between my fingers and landed noiselessly against the open pages of the diary. My hands remained frozen, palms slick with sweat, my chest rising and falling like I'd run miles through something I couldn't escape. The ink bled into the edge of the last sentence, as if the words themselves were ashamed of what they were made to carry.
I stared down at them, hollowed out, breath caught somewhere between guilt and surrender.



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