"Forget me," the words didn't come from my lips first; they started in the way you stopped looking at the doorway when I walked in. They grew in the spaces between our hands, a widening canyon carved by months of "fine" and "nothing."
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Forget the way I laugh. Forget the way I knew exactly how you took your tea. Forget me, because holding on is a heavier burden than letting go ever was. "Forget me," the words didn't come from my