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To comfort you.
Two hours ago, you treated me like a piece of trash, somebody totally uncapable of doing a favor to disappear from your life. Maybe death doesn't even want a thing with me. A very hard-hitting disease or terminal stage, what you say?
I'll remember, still. I don't smile and pretend nothing happened.
So, why you're worried about me now?
Does it change something? Not at all. Except you, forcing me to brush it off.
What now? You'll threaten to hit me if I don't change my mood? You don't want to be held accountable for anything. Completely invalidating.
Keep like this, it only takes longer for me to forgive you.
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