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... n days of silence. Seven days of walking past Grant as if we were strangers. Seven days of curling into myself, pretending I didn’t care, when every bone in my body ached from the weight of his absence.

So tonight, instead of sleeping, I wrote. My journal has become my confessional, my graveyard, my punching bag. Ink spilling everything I can’t say out loud: the anxiety chewing at me, the anger curdling under my skin, the stupid, stubborn love that refuses to die no matter how badly he t ...

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