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Late-September sunshine filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto her private balcony, and it makes Helen wonder if she could become a totally different person here, the kind with morning routines and inner peace.
Somewhere on an old hard drive, he has shitty poetry about this woman.
I don’t hate you, she wants to say. I just hate the way you love me.
how many words does it take for a screenwriter to propose to an author?
