I can hear her crying through the wall, the sound punching through like a cappella punctuation after each percussive beating. Sometimes I try to imagine she’s not real. We rode the lift together once, holding our corners like pacifist pugilists, pushed apart by the removal of space. Some diminishing quality in her made me feel increasingly large, as though I were being inflated deliberately. I worried that I might crush her if it continued. I found that I resented her for it and hated myself for that. Later, when she becomes imaginary, I worry that I couldn’t help it.

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