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chapter seventeen

Being in love as an artist is so defeating, so deafening and so beautiful at the same time. My muse is in my head, in my bed, everywhere. In my clothes their scent stays and the walls of my house cave in with the echo of his voice.

It's like a noose around the neck that's pulled tighter I write about him. Without even trying, everything I write is about him. Everything I imagine becomes with him, for him or he himself. He'd call me crazy if he read all of it but in my madness, only he resides. So, who really is crazy here? The one that writes or the one that makes?

-

"I c-can't Jae, I can't. I tore him apart, I wouldn't even be able to look him in the eye. I'm already enough ashamed right now," Jess' eyes were trained on their feet as her hand stayed intertwined with Minjae's. "I'm so sorry I ran away. I just couldn't do it anymore." 

"All that matter

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