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girls are close in a careful, honest way. They talk about what happened sometimes. Not often. Enough.
Instead, Laya wrote about me.
She left the paper on the kitchen table, face down, pretending she didn’t care if I read it.
Of course I read it.
My safe person is my mom. When I was little, some people thought I was too much. My mom told me I was not too continue reading …
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