“Does it still hurt?” He gestures with his chin toward my leg. “You were gone for two days, and you ask about my leg?” I whisper with a shaky voice. “I spent hours staring at my door, waiting for you to appear. A piece of me died each time I heard retreating footsteps in the hall. They didn’t stop, didn’t draw near. It wasn’t you. Two days. It wasn’t you.” “I had to take care of some things first, before coming here.” I spring off the couch and brush away my tears with the back of my hand. When did I start crying? “I thought something happened to you! I thought you were dead! And you had to
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