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There’s a moment right before she turns — the track playing was our summer anthem. I never told anyone. But that sealed it.

Her knee bounced under the frame — anxiety she never learned to hide.

She scratched behind her ear twice. That was her subconscious reset button.

She wrapped herself in a blanket that didn’t match the bed. It was mine, stolen the last time I left.

There was a band-aid on her finger. She always cut herself slicing avocados. I always offered to do it.

Her nail polish was half-peeled. She only painted them when anxious, and rarely finished.

There was a notebook beside her labeled “Don’t Read.” I almost did once.

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She looked into the camera like she recognized me. Like she knew I was watching. Every detail felt intentional.

The way she said ‘closer’ wasn’t sexy — it was personal. It felt like the past slipped into the present.

She hesitated before taking off her hoodie. Modesty? Or memory? I caught myself leaning closer.

She stretched, and the tank top revealed a scar I remember tracing. I didn’t expect the flood of memory — but it hit anyway.

Her voice caught mid-laugh. That crack always gave her away. It was like opening a box I sealed years ago.

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