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She wakes up alone, for the first time in a long time. Confused. Disoriented at first. The quiet is soft, but lonely. Tuneless. She’s not herself, today. She is nowhere, and it’s now. Today, she’s just a story. A story that started with a girl, like they all do. Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. She wasn’t expecting theirs to end so soon. Not when the middle had been so good. But stories can be tricky, she supposes.
She’ll peel herself from her own pages soon, and stop being a story to herself, but she’ll always be his story now, captured in snapshots and teapots; rosemary and rooibos. Something to dance across pages, remembered on long nights in distant futures, like all the girls who’ve come before.
Nothing lasts forever, like melted ice cream and other such secrets, it couldn’t be kept forever. Maybe ice cream lasts forever in Winnipeg. If she was ever able to say one thing though, it would be:
It’s not much easier leaving. A wish for peace seconded.
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