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Keys jingle-jangle in her fingers and she keeps looking at the door like it’ll make a decision for her. The more she thinks about it, the more her heart races and skips, so she’s not sure she should.

But she wants to.

She keeps imagining what it would be like to press the gas so hard to race to your front door. The walk up the steps, her fist on the door, your eyes when you appear behind it. Her eyes close and she can feel your lips and your hands and the way her back feels against the wall. You’d close the door with one hand, the other touching, gripping.

But she’s still sitting, alone, in her home.

She’s still glancing at the door waiting for the answer to paint itself across it.

But it doesn’t.

So she takes a deep breath and tosses those keys on the floor, gets up, and lays her forehead on the cool glass window instead. She just doesn’t want to say goodbye again.


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