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por favore.

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"where did you come from?" he stared daggers into me as i recoiled, worried his voice would fall with the next judgment of his expectation—a moment of disgust, or, more realistically, a disbelief of feasibility of the compatibility between us. i realize the daggers are not what they appear, and instead it's a genuine disbelief that he found me.


for a moment, i realize the fear i've kept close from the lack of enamorment, the empty reception i've never garnered from past lovers, it was all for naught; as i have somehow, someway, in the midst of all the pain and anger and war that swirls around us, found someone who i can't believe is actually in love with me.


i'm determined in this moment to never prove him wrong, and, for once in my life, not talk him out of it.


pour another?

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