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It wasn’t the comfortable silence. It was the kind that pressed down on your chest, the kind that made the ticking of the clock sound too loud. I could hear my own breathing, shallow and uneven, as if my body had already decided that something irreversible had just been said.
Paris tilted her head slightly, studying Rome the way she might study an unfamiliar insect, one she hadn’t yet decided was dangerous or harmless. Her eyes weren’t hostile. They weren’t angry.
The ...
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