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Every time I think of you and actually quite often since you appeared once again in my life,

it hurts deeply, like a replay button that goes on and on, ringing all the flashbacks before I open my eyes to see where I actually am.

My little room at home.

I end up hating myself thinking of all the details again and again,

I hate myself regreting for what could have been said and done when we still had time.

And every time, as I grab my pen to write to you,

it seemed pointless and painful,

I could not give you any good news,

The fact, I guess, is that I couldn’t face myself honestly so that I can’t even face you in a way I dislike myself.

Now all those memories, as predicted, seems nothing more than a dream.

though you’d always be that encouraging friend, I can’t bear myself being dragged further and further behind where you are.

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