“My fingers graze his chest. I trace the scars on his ribs, like Braille. A history of pain. But without that pain, he wouldn’t be who he is: someone with enough empathy to reach out to me, enough courage to love me. “You’re perfect, Stanley.”
“My fingers graze his chest. I trace the scars on his ribs, like Braille. A history of pain. But without that pain, he wouldn’t be who he is: someone with enough empathy to reach out to me, enough courage to love me. “You’re perfect, Stanley.”
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