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She is sitting on a chair, hesitant, waiting, wondering where he is. Eager to know how he is doing, whether he is feeling alright, she knows how tortured he must be; the way he torments himself, she only knows too well.

He knocks on the door, 3 hard knocks. She hastens towards the door and swings it open.

She says, “Hey.”

He doesn’t say a word.

He looks worn out, his eyes stone cold, registering no emotion or vitality.

He comes in dragging his weary feat, tossing his bag at the corner of the room. She goes back to where she was seated. He sits next to her. He stares straight ahead, not really at anything. 


She wonders if she should do or say anything. They sit there; he staring into the distance, she sitting beside him glancing at him occasionally.

Her voice breaks the silence. 

She says, “It was not your fault.”

He shakes his head slowly, still staring into space.

She wants with all her soul to hug him, comfort him, tell him that everything will be alright, but she knows whatever she says or does now will not be enough. 

Nothing will ever be enough.


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