Kirsty traced a finger over the embroidered floral letters on her pillowcase. She caressed the familiar curves that she had spelled a thousand times. Oscar with an O. She had once sought comfort inside that O, cocooned within its seamless sphere.

Oscar loves Kirsty.

She picked at the L, plucking at its fuchsia thread, tugging until it unraveled. Just as she had. Her nimble fingers then tore at the S until she was satisfied with her handiwork.

Oscar over Kirsty.

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