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I had mostly rotted away by the time you found me fallen in the apartment next door.
I couldn’t guess why you knocked yourself instead of calling the manager. You never really responded to my greetings or attempts to chat. Like maybe you didn’t like me.
I couldn’t bear that.
When you knocked, the unlatched door swung open. You crept inside. Upon finding me, your shoulders slumped.
“You’re rotting on the floor now?” you asked.
I said, “Is that why you don’t like me? Because I rot?”
“We’re fine, you’re just over dramatic. Now would you get off the floor?”
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