He did it, he said, “to distract his mind. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. She exhaled, feeling the tension drain from her shoulders and arms.
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