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Something told me it was probably the dying part.
Take our hearts, and we’ll pretend we offered them freely.
I held my friend all night, let him mumble his frantic apologies, all the while wondering what it would have been like to have him comfort me about my own death.
“You look lovely,” the vizier said. “You don’t have to lie. I’m years past needing to be told I’m beautiful.” The vizier looked me up and down and sighed. “Then let me rephrase my compliment. You look fierce.”

