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I used to go there. More often.

To see him.

He used to come there. More often.

To see me.

We both used to meet there. More often.

Just to smile with each other.

Slowly, I started to smile.

I started to feel less pain.

My bruises were still there on my hand. But I didn’t spare any attention on it. They were just another memory I shared with the person I wanted to be loved.

My mom.

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