Movies make me sad, tearing into secrets I didn't know I had. The actor's profile and stuttering strikes a particular note. There's a friend onscreen instead, and I miss him. I feel hollower for being reminded what I'm missing.
The hollowness makes me feel delicate, as though one more crack could send me crying, so I get up, and walk to the kitchen, shuffling gently, through glazed eyes. Absentmindedly, I grab the refrigerator door, but don't open it. I wrap my fingers around the cool handle, and lean my forehead against it. I ache.
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