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His voice was hollow, scratchy, his face a bit wan. He was so rarely sick, such an image of youth and vigor, that seeing him under the weather was unusual, and Juliette worried instantly.
Oh...
for all these years
YEARS???
She felt like a badly written character.
She kind of is.
Juliette couldn’t help but glance up, and her heart flipped over in her chest and some of the stitches she had so painstakingly placed around it tore.
How many times can we repeat the same metaphor?
