TWENTY SEVEN
It had been weeks since I had the yombul fever. Something in me had died. The break from Tae, putting down a life — I’d been through so much. It wasn’t normal, the weight I carried, the stress. My poor heart. I wasn’t going into an ecstatic state, I was a ball of pain. I had to come to terms with the fact that she’d sent a bomb in response to one of the finest pieces of literature I’d ever put…
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