Each time I fought with her, there would be this feeling of resignation, as if I’d confirmed, once again, how unsuitable I was for friendship, how unsuitable for the world itself.
I could see myself moving through time, my image flickering into its older self. Gaining wrinkles and strange, inexplicable aches.
My hands swung slightly beside me throughout.
The faintest shadows of other hands would brush through my wrinkled palms, but none would stay.
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