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Summary
It’s been eight years, a hundred months, three thousand days since she’d left. No matter how often you calculate the time, it feels like too little, like too much, like something you don’t really have a right to whine over. In fairness, she had done it so softly and so sweetly. The kindest thing she’d done for you since the knife twisting in your abdomen.
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Villanelle tries to work through her Eve-Polastri-left-me-because-apparently-we're-unhealthy-together-who-would've-thought feelings.