I didn't tell her it meant nothing. I was nice when it was over in the morning. I didn't feel the need to get into specifics, names and places and times and everything. I thought we were on the same page. And then I remembered, yes, there are books and there are chapters, there are pages, sentences, words. We spent a page together, made up of different thoughts and phrases. And I saw something I never thought of, that it wasn't her fault, that I couldn't blame her for staying in the sheets. That she, like me, was only looking for someone to share her story.
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