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sometimes the light is fragile. sometimes the gray is all we know.
they try to hold on to what’s left, to each other, to the ghosts of themselves,
and every quiet moment becomes a small rebellion against the world.
***“I don’t really have dreams anymore,” I admit. “Not the kind with hope in them. Just static. Noise.”
“Maybe that’s just your brain trying to reset,” he says. “Like after a blackout.”
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