A chill raced down my spine as her fingers moved across the markings on my forearms. My shoulders rounded forward, and she traced the markings. My head lowered and I shut my eyes. I’d never felt so weak, so exposed…so real. “You’re sad?” she whispered. “Yes.” “How sad?” “Very sad.” “How often?” I swallowed hard. “All the time.” That truth was the hardest to tell. “My uncle was sad, too. He kept his hurting to himself. I saw it sometimes. I saw it, and I didn’t do anything about it. Not that I could. But, I should’ve tried harder. If I’d tried harder, maybe he wouldn’t have…” I took a breath. I
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