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  1. She was starting to think she was okay with that. The last time she was working atop the glass roof, she kept getting distracted by the world enclosed below. Indistinguishable shells performed functions beneath her soles, working as hard as the generous sunlight allowed. They were boxed in. Flowers waiting to be plucked as long as they grew toward Mother’s love. After all, what other direction was there?

     

    Well, Fixer had grown too much. She was claustrophobic, roots all tangled up because they had nowhere else to push toward. She was itching to be yanked from the soil, whether that meant being repotted by Mother’s gentle hands or incinerated into fertilizer.

     

    UGH YOUR WRITING IS IMPECCABLE

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    1. TY <3

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