“Can I come over?” I ask, my voice shaking, because just hearing it isn’t enough. And I don’t care how pathetically needy it is. She’s so silent for so long, and my stomach sinks, the swimming sickness returning to my gut. “Freddy,” she says, and the change of name, the tone of her voice— Fuck, a knife to the stomach would’ve hurt less. “I can’t— I—” “God— Sorry.” I bite my lip. “Of course you’re busy. I’m sorry—please, ignore me.” “No, Matt, I can—” “Everyone’s really busy right now and I’m being selfish.” I nod, agreeing with myself as the words come out. My shirt is sweat soaked and
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