He found her in her room, thrown across the bed like a forgotten doll. Her dress bunched carelessly around her legs. Her arms slung out like they were made of rubber. Her cheeks were as a white as the bedsheets they rested against; her fingers, such long fingers, clutched at the sheets as if her bed was really a cliff and she was holding on for dear life.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Trying to forget how to breathe," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I thought it might be better than remembering how to breathe."
"Oh . . . is it working?"
"Sorta."
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