When We Were Still Ours
When We Were Still Ours: CH. 12
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CHAPTER TWELVE: THE WINDOW PERIOD
AARON
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THE WAITING ROOM SMELLS like antiseptic and burnt coffee.
Everything is beige. The walls. The chairs. The laminated posters about prevention and early detection. Even the light feels beige—flat and unforgiving, humming faintly overhead like it’s bored with the drama unfolding beneath it.
I didn’t sleep much.
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