In my small apartment, she healed slowly. Each Friday, I brought her flowers—not because she needed them, but because she deserved the reminder that she mattered.
One night, she smiled at me. “You saved me.”
I shook my head. “I just showed up.”
“Not everyone would’ve seen through me,” she said. I squeezed her hand. “You’re a terrible liar,” I said, and for the first time in too long, she laughed like herself.
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