You drove me to the station and when I got out I felt this overwhelming sense of something I couldn't quite place. Of nostalgia, perhaps, or some deep and heavy loss. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.
Then when I got on the train I realised I'd left my hair straighteners at your house.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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