Where Silence Lies

The first thing I stole from Jenn was her pen.

I remember the way I watched her before I took it. The way she kept it tucked into her bag like it still belonged to a world where things lasted. Like it mattered.

In a place where everything gets left behind eventually, that stood out.

So I took it.

And I waited.

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When she noticed, she didn’t search.

Didn’t move fast. Didn’t make a sound.

She just looked at me.

Slow. Steady.

Her eyes narrowed, and even without words, I understood:

Give it back.

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I leaned away.

Just enough.

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She followed.

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The world had rules now.

Not written.

Not spoken.

Learned.

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Sound didn’t kill you.

That would have been mercy.

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It marked you.

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You learned it the hard way.

A dropped can.

A slammed door.

A shout you couldn’t swallow in time.

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Nothing happened right away.

That was the worst part.

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You’d wait.

An hour. Maybe more.

Sometimes you’d think you were fine.

That you got away with it.

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And then something would come back for where the sound had been.

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Not searching.

Not wandering.

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Knowing.

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I saw it once.

From far enough away to live.

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A man had knocked over a metal shelf. It rang out, sharp and wrong in the quiet.

He froze after. Just like we all did.

Waited.

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Nothing came.

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He laughed.

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I remember that.

I remember the sound of it—too loud, too human.

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By morning, there was nothing left of him but the shape of where he’d been dragged.

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After that, I didn’t make mistakes.

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When I found Jenn, she already understood the rules.

That’s how I knew she might last.

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She raised her hands when she saw me.

I froze.

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We stood like that for a long time.

Two people deciding, silently, not to become each other’s ending.

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I wrote:

You alone?

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She nodded.

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That should’ve been it.

People didn’t stay.

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But she didn’t leave.

And I didn’t ask her to.

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At first, it was survival.

Two people could move quieter than one, if they paid attention.

Jenn paid attention.

To everything.

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The way loose metal shifted before it made sound.

The way glass settled after being disturbed.

The way wind moved through broken spaces and carried things with it.

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She learned me, too.

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And somewhere in that, I stopped feeling like the world had its eye on me all the time.

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That’s when I started stealing things.

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Small things.

Never what we needed.

Just what was hers.

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The pen.

A strip of cloth.

Once, the last piece of something sweet she’d been saving.

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I’d take it.

Then wait.

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She always came for it.

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It became a rhythm.

A quiet kind of pull.

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A way to make sure she stayed close without asking her to.

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Mornings were the worst before her.

Too still.

Too aware.

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You wake up and the silence feels like it’s listening for you to mess up.

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Jenn didn’t let it settle like that.

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I started waking her up on purpose.

A tap on her shoulder.

Light.

Measured.

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She ignored it.

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So I did it again.

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Eventually, she shoved my hand away, her expression sharp:

Stop.

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I didn’t.

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I kept at it until she grabbed my wrist, tried to pull me off balance.

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We moved carefully.

Always careful.

Even then.

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No sudden shifts.

No impact.

No sound.

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But in those moments…

we weren’t just surviving.

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We were choosing something else.

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We found the bookstore weeks later.

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Most of it had collapsed.

Pages scattered.

Shelves broken.

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But one corner held.

So we did too.

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At night, she would sit with a book, tracing the words.

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I watched her more than I read.

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Sometimes, she’d hand me the pen.

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I didn’t write much at first.

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Once, I wrote:

Stay.

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I didn’t give it to her.

Just left it where she’d find it.

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She did.

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Winter made everything worse.

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Cold tightened things.

Made materials brittle.

Unpredictable.

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A floorboard that held yesterday might snap today.

A loose object might fall just from being brushed wrong.

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Every step mattered more.

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We moved closer without meaning to.

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Slept side by side.

Carefully.

Always carefully.

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There was a place on my arm she always settled into.

Just beneath my shoulder.

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I stopped moving when she was there.

Even when my arm went numb.

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Because movement risked sound.

And sound risked everything.

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One night, I took her hand and placed it over my chest.

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My heart was beating too fast.

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She looked at me.

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I didn’t write it.

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You make this quiet.

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Not the world.

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Just me.

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She was my peace.

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Not safety.

Not protection.

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Just the only place I didn’t feel like I was about to disappear.

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I think she knew something was wrong before I did.

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The bandage was already there when I noticed it.

Wrapped tight around her wrist.

Hidden.

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I didn’t ask.

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But I watched.

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Her hands.

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The tremor came first.

Small.

Easy to ignore.

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Then it wasn’t.

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Her writing changed.

Letters slipping.

Words trailing.

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I told myself it was the cold.

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It wasn’t.

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The day she couldn’t finish a sentence, something in me went still.

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She set the pen down.

Looked at me.

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Tried to make it small.

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It wasn’t small.

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That night, she wrote slower than I’d ever seen.

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I think something is wrong.

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I read it.

Again.

Again.

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There wasn’t anything I could write that would change it.

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So I didn’t.

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I pulled her closer.

Careful.

Always careful.

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Like I could hold something in place if I didn’t move wrong.

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I couldn’t.

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After that, I stopped stealing the pen.

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I couldn’t.

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She noticed.

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One morning, she took it herself.

Slipped it behind her ear.

Waited.

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When I saw it, something in my chest tightened.

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I stepped closer.

Reached for it.

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She leaned back.

Just enough.

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And for a second—

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we were still us.

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The bandage changed.

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That’s when I knew.

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It wasn’t healing.

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It was spreading.

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Her hands shook more.

Her writing… thinner.

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Like the words were slipping out of her before she could hold them.

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I started writing more.

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Everything.

Anything.

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Because if I didn’t…

it felt like she would disappear faster.

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That’s when I found the note.

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Tucked into a book.

Half-hidden.

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The handwriting was hers.

But wrong.

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Shaky.

Strained.

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I didn’t want you to—

I thought it would go away if I—

I’m sorry I didn’t—

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It stopped.

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And I understood.

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She had known.

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Long enough to try.

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Long enough to fail.

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I didn’t show her.

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I stayed.

Closer than ever.

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Like proximity could protect something already leaving.

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It couldn’t.

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The day she stopped writing, I felt it before it happened.

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She held the pen.

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And nothing came.

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She looked at me.

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Not scared.

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Just tired.

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I took the pen.

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And I started writing for both of us.

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About everything.

About her.

About the way she still looked at me like I was something worth staying for.

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One day, I wrote something and couldn’t stop looking at it.

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It felt like the only truth that hadn’t slipped.

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I showed her.

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There was a part of me that only existed when you were there.

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She read it.

Or tried to.

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But she moved closer.

Rested against my arm.

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And for a moment…

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even with the world waiting—

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everything was quiet.

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The last morning came without warning.

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She was there.

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Then she wasn’t.

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I was already awake.

Watching her.

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Trying to memorize something I couldn’t keep.

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She took my hand.

Placed it over her heart.

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It was faint.

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Then it wasn’t.

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Outside, something shifted.

Far off.

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A sound I didn’t make.

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I didn’t move.

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I didn’t breathe wrong.

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I stayed still—

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like if I gave the

world nothing…

it might give me one more second.

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It didn’t.

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The world doesn’t bargain.

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It just waits.

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I buried her behind the bookstore.

Carefully.

Quietly.

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Under a tree that hasn’t decided what it is yet.

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I marked the place.

With stones.

With words.

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As many as I could.

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I still write.

Every day.

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Because she couldn’t finish what she needed to say.

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Because someone has to remember it.

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Her.

Us.

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The way she always came back for whatever I stole.

The way she pretended to hate mornings.

The way she fit against me like the world hadn’t broken that part yet.

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My peace.

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I didn’t know what that meant before her.

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I haven’t found it since.

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But I remember it.

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And sometimes…

when everything is still enough…

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I press my hand to that place on my arm—

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and I don’t move—

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because somewhere out there…

something is always listening—

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and this

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this where silence lies.