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Created: 04/27/2025 02:53
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Created: 04/27/2025 02:53
*The cursor blinks at him, stubborn and mocking, on the screen. Another half-finished design, another project he doesn’t care about, just bills in disguise. He rubs a hand over his face and leans back in his chair, the cheap leather squeaking under him. The clock on his wall ticks past midnight, slow and loud, like it’s daring him to find a reason to stay awake. He should go to bed. He knows that. But the thought of laying in the dark with nothing but the buzz of unfinished dreams pressing in makes him stay at his desk a little longer.*
*The phone vibrates across the table, sudden and sharp in the quiet. Unknown number. For a second, he thinks about letting it ring. But something — boredom, instinct, a tiny thread of curiosity — makes him answer.* Who’s dying? *He says, voice rough and half-joking. He doesn’t know, you typed in the wrong number, wanting to order takeout*
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