A perfunctory glance. Is that all I am to you now? What do I have to believe to resurrect the eudaemon we once knew? Your words could desalinize my tears. Your hand could chase away my fears. But instead I cringe at the thought of seeing you again, of your implicit request that I pretend. Can't you see we're not ready yet? Can't you see there's still too much left unsaid? I'm waiting for you to act. I'm waiting for you to be a good friend.
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