“Tell me a lie, Isaac.” His fingertips trace a curlicue on my shoulder. “I don’t love you.” He cannot see my face, but it writhes: eyelashes, lips, the cutting of lines across my forehead. “Tell me a truth, Senna.” “I don’t know how,” I breath. “Then tell me a lie.” “I don’t love you,” I say. I sink beneath the weight of it all.
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