The world keeps spinning but I have stopped. Somewhere between the last conversation and the silence that followed, I became a statue in a museum of memories. People walk past me now, their voices echoing in chambers I didn't know existed inside my chest. The coffee grows cold. The phone rings unanswered. Even the sunlight feels borrowed, as if it's meant for someone else's skin. I carry this weight like a stone in my throat, swallowing around it, learning to breathe in smaller portions. They say time heals, but time just teaches you to carry the ache differently, not lighter, just repositioned, like furniture in a room you can no longer bear to enter the same way.
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