But the killer, the hardest thing to process, is that as he sings, he’s looking at me like he actually wants to know every piece of me. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t. And no one has ever looked at me like that. I’m frozen in time until someone stands in front of me, saving me from my inner torment. My foolish notion. I must have it all wrong. He probably can’t even see me, let alone see me. “Is he singing to you?” Cory asks, pulling my attention from my thoughts. My gaze flits to her. “What? No,” I answer quickly, not at all playing it cool. And really, why should I when I can tell by her
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