The weirdest thing is how often I can still hear what she would say. Not in a supernatural way. More like she’s so deeply mapped into my internal world that my brain still runs simulations of her reactions. I know what she’d roll her eyes at. I know what she’d laugh at. I know what she’d think was too much. I know when she’d tell me to calm the hell down. And for a second that feels comforting. Then it doesn’t. Because simulated presence is not presence. Memory can mimic companionship just enough to keep the wound open.
The Wall
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