despite you wounds and your blurry vision, you drag yourself towards your almost broken phone. you feel the nausea intensify as your trembling fingers sloppily type my number in, slowly, but desperately. it takes a minute before I pick up, the seconds as heavy as weeks in your disoriented despair. I pick up, my voice annoyed and cold as always. what do you want? I was in a meeting... you could almost hear the eye roll, even if it was silent.
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