There was something I wanted from that family. A bit of joy. A bit of care. A bit of attention.

I stepped foot inside the house. Then, just like that, I wanted to stay. 

Without my belongings, I stayed at their house for longer than I expected.

It was his rage, and the trash bag of clothes.

It was my crying one night, and the crowd.

It was a silly affirmation of a boy's behaviour, and her startle.

There was not a time I could shake my head off of those memories, or any others.

Or, could I?

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