“Have you met me? I don’t like to talk about anything, Oliver, but I do it for you. You think it’s fun for me to tell you about my dead mother and my childhood bullies and my psychopath partner? It’s not. Do you think it makes me feel good when you see me vomiting because I ate too much too fast for my fucked-up gut or when you come back to the apartment and I haven’t dressed or showered or moved because my anxiety is spinning out? It doesn’t. It’s painful, it’s humiliating, it’s fucking hell. But I work on it anyway because I thought that’s what people do when they’re in love and want a—a
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