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Her voice wavered when she said “yeah.” Like it was meant for someone she used to say it to.
Her ring spun freely — too loose. She lost weight when stressed, and always refused to admit it.
She lingered by the window a second too long. That’s where we used to smoke and whisper dumb promises.
She rubbed her temples, slow and circular — the same motion she used before admitting she missed me.
The bedsheet had creases like someone had been lying there right before she hit record.
The stool was uneven. We broke one leg while roleplaying. She insisted it added character.
The pillow behind her had embroidered initials. Not hers. Mine.
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Background noise spills in — fan hum, traffic buzz, life unmuted.
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Her last expression wasn’t performative. It was like she forgot the camera was even on. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.
Her laptop sticker was peeling. We stuck it on together during finals week. It felt like the past slipped into the present.
The lampshade was tilted. I broke it during our second big fight. It wasn’t just familiar — it was intimate.
It felt like a loop. But I knew it was live. And meant for me. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.
The echo in the room was familiar — our old apartment had the same acoustics. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.
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