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The little things bother him most.

The way she picks up a cup of tea so slowly, carefully, raising it to lips to drink with the deliberation of a two-year old instead of the effortless grace of an adept dancer – as if she no longer trusts her own body to do what she expects.

The way she begins laughing, eyes crinkling with joy, the type of happiness he thinks teenagers her age should experience easily, and then nothing – her voice chokes off abruptly, eyes falling blank and expressionless, staring into places he cannot see.

No – there are no little things.

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