His scribbles lay over her heart like pebbles washed from the sea.
She traces her fingers over his curly, cursive writing. The squiggles, the strike outs so dark that the words beneath couldn't be read. She felt the dog-eared paper crumple under her fingers. His words. The things he couldn't bring himself to say.
That's that kind of emptiness that comes crashing in.
It's either love or hate.
I can't find any in betweens.
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