At a young age, she learned to pretend that nothing bothered her, to dam up any tears of pity or compassion with great, impenetrable walls.
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their contact creates a human connection that feels as vital to him as the air he can still breathe.
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Maybe her actions now can be the words she’s still too afraid to offer.
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forgiving someone is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
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Her playing is beautiful, a soft blanket calming his agitated nerves.
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Don’t answer a question with another question
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sounds and intonation, a song he wanted to learn.
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Her voice was a melody of exotic
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It’s not that they see him and look away. They never notice him in the first place. He’s part of the background
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needs something to do, something to distract him from the bottomless sorrow and anger inside his gut, from the tortured thoughts circling like vultures in his head.