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Even if I'm stuttering, nothing in Penelope's expression increases my nervousness. She even stops paying half attention to her glass to take one of my hands and hold it firmly. My palm is sweaty, but Penelope doesn't seem to bother as she squeezes her fingers on mine.

"You know you can tell me anything, Suzy.”

I look at our united hands, then at your face. Her olive-colored skin shines under the ceiling light, contrasting even more with the color of the gold in her hair and the penetrating darkness of her dark irises. Again I hesitate about how I should start telling the truth.

"About your brother" I can murmur, tangled each syllable so much that I almost choke. “What do you remember about Jonathan?”

Surprise, Penelope loosens her fingers over mine, but doesn't let go of my hand. Somehow your empathy seems to have withered as fast as a flower touched by frost.

"Why does your Psychiatrist think that talking about my brother can make things easier?”

I don't like the arrogance I hear in
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