milk & manuscripts

I think that’s an important distinction too, because this feeling only really applies to romance. If I’m writing character studies, psychological pieces, found family, hurt/comfort, angst, or anything that isn’t centered around romance, I’m completely fine. It’s specifically when I sit down to write a romantic dynamic that my brain suddenly goes, “…ouh, pause.”

It’s not that I’m trying to put myself in the shoes of the character, nor am I trying to insert myself into the relationship. I’m so aware that I’m an adult writing about younger real people that sometimes I’ll stop mid-scene and go, “wait… am i even allowed to write this?” 😭

For some reason, I find it a bit heeheehaha because I don’t really experience this with fictional characters (only if they’re 17-18) because well they’re fictional and I don’t think twice about it. But because these are real people, even though I’m writing fictional versions of them, there’s still that awareness in the back of my mind that they exist outside the story. To be honest though, that’s where most of my hesitation comes from.

I’ve tried reframing it in my head as “this is an OC x ____ story written in second person,” because technically that’s much closer to how I approach it. I’m writing a character, a dynamic, an emotional experience—not imagining myself dating them. but even then, that little voice in my head is still there sometimes.

The best way I can describe it is that my discomfort comes from being age-conscious, not from believing romance can’t be written. I think once I got older, my relationship to writing younger characters changed a little. When they’re around 17–18, my brain no longer automatically sees them as peers, so I become much more conscious about how I write them and the kinds of stories I tell.

I also want to clarify that this is just a me thing. I’m not saying romance fics about younger idols are wrong, nor am I think-piecing what other people choose to write. If someone closer in age to them writes those stories, I genuinely don’t think twice about it. This is just a personal boundary I’ve realized I have as a writer.

That’s also probably why I tend to gravitate toward character studies, emotional arcs, psychological dynamics, found family themes, healing, and introspection. I love romance, but I often feel more comfortable writing the personhood of a character first and the relationship second.

That being said… could I still write romance? Absolutely. I already have! I’ve written romance and established relationship fics before—though I feel like they’re never super romance-heavy, if that makes sense. 😭

It’s not that I’m incapable of writing it or that I don’t want to. If anything, I’d love to write more romance. I just find myself wrestling with this mental block every now and then. I know I could simply choose not to write it, but I also don’t want to let that discomfort stop me from exploring stories I genuinely want to tell.

Lee Hyunwoo had sat through enough of these to know the shape of a decision before anyone in the room admitted one was being made.

You could tell by the coffee. A meeting that was actually a discussion ran on the good stuff someone's assistant walked down for; a meeting that was a decision wearing a discussion's clothes ran on whatever was left in the carafe from the session before. On the fourteenth floor that October afternoon the carafe had been sitting since morning, and nobody had asked for a fresh one, and by the third day of it the room had taken on the flat brown smell of coffee that had gone cold and been reheated on principle rather than for taste.

Outside the window the city had gone the particular grey of early autumn, the kind of light that made every glass tower look like it was thinking about something. Lee wrote the date at the top of a fresh page—the eighth of October, though it would be another eight days before anyone in this room said the word announcement out loud—and waited for someone to begin.

Director Cho began. She always did, and she was good at it, which was the part people outside these rooms never understood—that the decisions that flatten someone's life are almost never made badly. They are made well, by competent people with clean slides, and the competence is what makes them impossible to stop.

"Seven weeks post-debut," she said. "The numbers are good. Not the problem." She advanced the slide, and the room looked at a chart that climbed sharply through August, held through most of September, and then, in the last two weeks, stopped climbing and simply widened—the way a river does when it hits flat ground and has nowhere left uphill to go.

"Here's the problem," she went on. "We're at saturation on the current premise. Five self-producing boys, all of them likeable, none of them in conflict with each other, a debut single that did exactly what it was built to do. There's no story left to tell that we haven't already told, and we told all of it in seven weeks."

"They just got back from the fan meet," someone said. "The engagement's still strong."

"Engagement isn't the same as growth," Cho said. "What You Want did what a debut single is supposed to do. It introduced them. It cannot introduce them twice."

She let that sit a second before continuing. "An audience doesn't stay for people who are fine. It stays for a question. Right now we don't have one."

Lee wrote stays for a question and underlined it, because it was true, and because it was the kind of true thing that got used later to justify something ugly.

Cho advanced again. Two case studies from rival companies, both member additions, both landing eight to twelve months post-debut, both charted against a control group of comparable acts that hadn't made the change. One had gone badly in the first quarter and recovered by the second. The other had gone badly and never recovered, its numbers still depressed a full two years out, and she left that chart on the screen a beat longer than the first, which Lee noted, because it was honest, and because putting the failure up on purpose was how you made a room feel it had been shown everything.

"The upside isn't the member," Cho said. "It's the disruption. Weeks of every conversation about this group being about this. You can't buy that. You can't schedule it into a comeback plan, and God knows we don't have a comeback plan ready—the earliest slot on the production calendar is February."

"And the downside is the same thing," Lee said.

"Yes." She didn't flinch from it. "The downside is the same thing."

The objection came from the far end of the table, from a man named Ryu in artist development who had been with the company for years and had, Lee happened to know, two daughters, one of them the same age as the group's youngest member.

"I want it in the minutes that I said this," Ryu said. "The five didn't ask for this. Seven weeks ago we put them on a stage and told the country who they were, and now, seven weeks later, we're telling them we lied about the headcount."

"Noted," Cho said.

"I'm not finished. We sold them as a crew. Not a lineup—a crew, five specific people who trained together for months, a year or two, anything, built a thing together, and that was the entire promise. It's on every piece of collateral we produced for the debut, down to the tour merchandise they're still selling out of a warehouse right now." He turned a pen over in his fingers.

"We're not just adding a member. We're breaking a promise and adding a member, and only one of those is going to be forgiven."

"Also noted."

"And whoever she is," Ryu said, "she's going to pay for all of it. Not us. Not the five. Her. She'll walk into a building where nobody wanted her, seven weeks after a debut she had no part in, on behalf of a decision she didn't make, and the entire internet will hold her personally responsible for a memo written on this floor in October."

The room let that sit for exactly as long as courtesy required.

"That's correct," Cho said. "It's also true of every debut we've ever done, at a smaller scale. We're arguing about degree."

"We're arguing about a person."

"We're always arguing about a person." She said it with honesty, which was worse. "The question in front of us is whether the person is better served being the sixth member of a group with this much momentum seven weeks in, or the four hundredth trainee in a building that will let her file go cold in eighteen months."

Lee wrote degree and then, under it, nobody said no. Because that was the truth of the three days: nobody said no. Ryu said not like this, and for the record, and I want it minuted, and all of it was heard, and all of it was written down. An objection in the minutes is not a wall. It's a receipt.

——

The third day was the timing, which was also the worst, because by then the decision was made and everyone in the room was free to be practical about it.

Marketing wanted the standard rollout. A week of profile drops, a scored teaser, the whole slow apparatus designed to let an audience fall a little in love before anyone gave them the chance to be angry. It was the way that worked, and it required something they no longer had, which was time.

"The subcontractor invoice for the choreography adjustments went out with six names on it," someone said. "Nine days ago. Payroll flagged it, we caught it before it left the building, but it means at least one vendor has already seen the number."

"And there's a trainee account that got within about ninety seconds of posting a practice-room clip with an extra silhouette in the mirror. We caught that one too. We won't catch the next one."

So it stopped being a choice between doing it well and doing it badly. It became a choice between announcing it themselves and reading about it on someone else's timeline by noon, which is not a choice, and everyone in the room recognized the moment the argument died.

"Three in the morning," Cho said. "Low traffic, our own channel, our own words, no visuals we haven't controlled. It burns hotter but it burns faster, and we'd rather own the first hour than lose it."

"Photo?"

"We don't have a shoot scheduled and there's no time to put six of them in a room before this leaks further."

Nobody said the other thing, which was that even if there had been time, no one was confident a first photo would have gone well. Lee looked around the table and watched five people decline, simultaneously and without coordination, to say it out loud.

"Composite," Cho said. "Use the rehearsal capture from the summer promo block for the five, shoot her alone this week in matching light, drop her into the empty position in post."

"That'll read as a composite to anyone who looks closely."

"It'll read as six people in a room to everyone who isn't looking for it." She was already moving to the next item, the legal team's contract amendment, the revised choreography delivery date, the schedule for the studio session that would put the girl's voice on the two songs the fandom would end up fighting hardest over. "Approved. Next."

It ran another forty minutes after that, and the forty minutes were logistics—legal, the schedule, the amendment, who signed what by when—and Lee wrote all of it down and none of it stayed with him.

What stayed with him was what didn't get raised.

Nobody asked how the five would be told. It appeared on the schedule as a line item, member notification, slotted for the morning after the announcement, which meant they had decided—without anyone actually deciding—that the five would find out the same way the public did, from a phone, in the dark, alone. And nobody asked how she would be told either; only who would tell her and how long it would take, as though she were a package requiring a signature on delivery.

He looked at the member notification line for a while. Then he wrote, in his own notebook, off the record: We are going to make six people learn this at the same time as two hundred thousand strangers, and then we are going to put them in a van the next morning and ask them to be a group by lunch.

Cho closed her laptop. "Anything else?"

Ryu didn't look up from his own notes. "Just what I said on Monday."

"It's minuted," Cho said, and it was, and that was the end of the conversation.

At the door, she stopped and turned back, and Lee understood a half-second before she spoke that this was what she'd been holding.

"Lee. You'll take them."

"Take them."

"You'll manage the group through the transition. Somebody's going to be in the van with all six of them the day after this lands." She had the tired accuracy of a person who had made a hard call and was now making the small decent one available inside it. "I'd rather it was someone who wrote down what Ryu said instead of someone who didn't think it was worth writing down."

He should have said something. He thought about it for eleven days afterward, at three in the morning mostly, and never arrived at what it would have been.

"Okay," he said.

The announcement went up eight days later, at 03:07, and by the time Lee's alarm went off that same morning the country had already decided how it felt about a sentence none of the people in that meeting room had written down as anything more than a line item.

——

The dorm was quiet at 8:40, which was itself the tell, because on an ordinary morning it never was.

James was up first. He'd already reworked the harmony chart twice before anyone else's door had opened—not because anyone had asked him to, but because a blank page at six in the morning was easier to hold. Juhoon had made rice nobody was going to eat and set it out anyway. He stood at the counter for a long moment with his hand flat on the warm rice cooker before he made himself stop touching it and go get dressed.

Seonghyeon lay on his back for ten extra minutes with his phone above his face—two grey ticks still sitting under a message he'd sent the night before and would never mention sending. He got up and did his hair with more care than the morning warranted. Keonho was already dressed before his alarm went off. He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his earphones in and no music playing, running through the morning in his head the way he used to run through a race before the gun.

Martin was the last one dressed and the first one downstairs, and he talked the whole way to the van about nothing—the weather, whether the coffee machine at the practice building was fixed yet, a joke about James's harmony chart that James didn't laugh at—because talking about nothing meant not yet having to talk about the only thing.

The van was silent from the dorm to the building, and the silence was the first thing that frightened Lee about the whole assignment.

He had ridden with a lot of groups. He knew the ordinary morning quiet of teenagers who hadn't slept, which had a texture to it—a shifting, a phone screen, somebody's leg going. This was not that. Five people sat in a vehicle built for eight and every one of them had chosen a seat that touched nobody, and not one of them had said a word since the door slid shut on the last block of the ride.

They had not, he realized, been in a room together since it happened. Thirty-one hours. Whatever each of them had decided alone in the dark had had thirty-one hours to set, and none of them had tested it against anyone else's.

In the third row James had his phone out and wasn't looking at it. He'd built the list overnight—the formations that would need rebuilding, the choreography that was now wrong for a five-count instead of six, the harmony arrangements that assumed five parts and would need a whole register moved to make room—because the list was a thing he could hold, and because a person who arrived with a plan didn't have to arrive with feelings.

He'd also done a smaller, uglier piece of reckoning somewhere around four in the morning and put it away without finishing it, which was this: I have been here before. Not the same shape. But he knew what it was to be in a group whose future got decided in a room he wasn't invited to, and he knew what that did to five people over time, and he had spent three years learning not to say so out loud to anyone.

Beside him Juhoon was watching the window. He'd looked at the leaked photo maybe forty times overnight and always at the same thing—not the composition, not the obvious seam of it, but her hands. She was holding them in front of her, one wrist inside the other, the way a person holds her hands when she's been told to stand naturally and has no idea what they're supposed to do with that instruction.

She didn't pick this either. He'd arrived at that in the first hour and hadn't been able to get past it since. It was, he was aware, a useless thing to have concluded. It didn't tell him what to do this morning. It only meant that whatever the others turned out to feel, he'd already given away his ability to feel it cleanly.

Seonghyeon sat in the second row with his phone face-down on his knee. He'd checked the unanswered message eleven times since sending it and had stopped checking around six a.m., not out of pride but because he'd worked out that checking was for him and not for her. He hadn't told the others he'd sent it. He wasn't sure why. Some instinct said that the moment it became a thing the group knew about, it would stop being a thing he'd done quietly and start being a position he'd taken in front of everyone.

And Keonho, by the far window, was doing what he'd been doing for thirty-one hours, which was nothing.

He'd made the decision at four a.m. and had held it since with the discipline of a person who had spent years learning to keep still on a starting block with his heart going: nothing I feel in the middle of this is reliable. He would not form an opinion while the ground was still moving under him. He watched the industrial stretch of road go past the window and refused to want anything about the morning, and from the outside it looked like a sixteen-year-old who didn't care, and inside it was the most work anyone in the van was doing.

Only Martin kept talking, in short bursts, to no one—a comment about the traffic on the overpass, a comment about whether the ten a.m. call time would slip, each one dying in the recycled air of the van. Lee watched him do it in the rearview mirror and recognized it for what it was. The leader trying to find out, without asking directly, whether the group was still a group.

Nobody answered him, because nobody trusted their own voice not to give something away. And Martin read the silence as the answer, and stopped, and by the time they reached the building he had concluded—wrongly, completely—that the other four had already agreed on something in his absence.

——

The briefing room had a table too large for six people, glass-topped, the kind that showed every fingerprint by ten in the morning, and Lee ran through the agenda the way he'd been told to: the schedule, the rehearsal block starting at eleven, the adjusted formations, the fact that a revised choreography package would be delivered Thursday and a revised vocal arrangement by Friday. He kept his voice flat and moved quickly, because he had learned that when you cannot give people the thing they want, you can at least not waste their time pretending you might.

Martin let him get four minutes in.

"When was it decided?"

Lee had known it was coming. He had also known, from the moment Cho handed him the assignment, exactly what he was and was not permitted to say, and had spent part of the previous night deciding which of those he was going to be when the question landed.

"The final approval was last week," he said.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know."

Martin's jaw moved. "How long were people in rooms about this?"

"Longer than a week."

"How much longer?"

And here was the moment. Lee could feel the four others in his peripheral vision, all of them very still, all of them pretending to be less invested in the answer than they were.

"I'm not able to tell you that," he said. "I'm telling you that I'm not able to, instead of telling you it was last week and leaving it there to sit as a lie. That's the most I've got this morning."

It was, he thought, the most honest thing anybody in the company had said to Martin in a month. It also landed like a slap, because I'm not allowed to tell you is only a kindness to a person who isn't seventeen and doesn't have his name printed first on the group's contract page.

Martin sat back. "Okay," he said, and it was the flattest syllable Lee had ever heard out of him.

Across the table, James registered the exchange and said nothing, because he had already assumed the answer was months and had already decided that being proven right about it was worth nothing to anyone. Juhoon said nothing because he was watching Martin's hands, which had gone still on the table in a way his hands never did. Seonghyeon said nothing because he was sixteen and the room had just gotten dangerous in a way he didn't have a tool for yet. Keonho said nothing because he had promised himself, at four in the morning, that he wouldn't.

And Martin—who had asked the question in front of everyone specifically so that everyone would see him ask it, so the group would know he hadn't been one of the people in those rooms—looked around the table at four faces that had absorbed the answer without a flicker, and concluded, again wrongly, that he was the only one it had cost anything.

He went out into the corridor at 9:40 to get water and did not go to get water.

He had known where she was since they arrived; someone had said holding room, second corridor in the general noise of the morning and it had gone into him like a splinter, and he had spent the whole briefing aware of it under the numbers and the schedule, and the second the meeting broke he was moving before he'd assembled a reason.

The reason, such as it was: he was the leader. Whatever happened this morning, whatever tone the next year took, somebody was going to set it in the first thirty seconds of contact, and it should be him. Not out of generosity, entirely. Out of the same instinct that made him rewrite a bridge at two in the morning—that if a thing was going to be built, he wanted his hands on it while it was still soft enough to shape.

The corridor was longer than he remembered it being on any other morning, fluorescent-lit, a vending machine humming somewhere off to the left, a cleaning cart parked against the wall with nobody attending it. He got most of the way down it before he understood he had nothing to say.

That was something that he hadn't planned for. He'd been so occupied with the should that he'd skipped the what. Every sentence he tried arrived pre-broken. Hi, I'm Martin was absurd; she knew who he was, everyone knew who he was, and saying it would sound like he thought she might not.

This isn't your fault presumed a verdict he hadn't decided on yet. Are you okay was Seonghyeon's sentence, though he didn't know that yet, and it would have sounded false coming out of his own mouth. And underneath all of them sat the true sentence, the one he could not possibly say out loud to a stranger in a hallway on the worst morning of both their lives: I found out when you did and I'm humiliated and I don't know what I am to this group anymore, and none of that is about you, and I'm about to make it about you anyway.

The door had a small window in it, reinforced glass with a wire grid through the middle. He was going to look through it and keep walking; somehow a compromise he made with himself in the last three steps.

She was sitting with her back very straight and her hands flat on her knees, alone, in a room with a water dispenser and a set of half-open blinds letting in a long grey bar of window light, looking at nothing in particular.

He'd expected—he wasn't proud of this—someone who looked like she'd won something, the way the internet was already narrating it. What he got instead was a girl composed to the exact degree of a person who has decided that being seen to feel anything is a risk she can't afford this morning, and he recognized it instantly, because it was the same face he'd been wearing since the briefing room, and he had precisely no idea what to do with the fact that they had arrived at the same expression from opposite sides of the same decision.

He kept walking.

It took four steps to become unforgivable. By the sixth he was already assembling the repair—I'll do it in the room, properly, in front of everyone, it'll mean more that way—and the repair had the weightlessness of a lie you can feel not holding even as you tell it to yourself.

He got water he didn't want from the machine on the far side of the floor and stood there drinking it too fast, and told himself he'd fix it in ten minutes, and did not fix it in ten minutes, or in the room, or for two more months.

——

They were held eight minutes outside the rehearsal room, which was seven minutes longer than anyone needed for a staffer to find a key, and the eight minutes did more damage than anything that happened afterward.

Nobody talked. James stood square to the door and ran the room in his head like a set list—who speaks, in what order, what has to be established in the first two minutes so the rest of the week has a floor to stand on. Juhoon shifted his weight and looked at the door handle like it might move on its own.

Seonghyeon had gone pale the way a person goes pale on realizing that a thing he'd done privately at four in the morning was about to be in the same room as the person he'd done it for. Keonho stood the way he used to stand behind the blocks before a race, breathing low and even, holding a decision he had already made and was not going to unmake no matter what the next hour did to him.

Martin stood slightly apart from all four of them and understood, with total clarity and no ability to act on it, that he was about to say nothing.

Then the staffer got the door open, and the five of them went in.

——

What happened in the room lasted eleven minutes and Lee, watching from the wall, would describe it in his report that evening as introductions completed, tone constructive.

Here is what he actually saw.

He saw James go first because somebody had to, and because James had already worked it out in the corridor and concluded that the fastest route to a functional week was to establish the facts and close. He watched the eldest give his name and a question and a nod, all of it clipped down to the load-bearing minimum, and he watched the girl receive it the way you receive a receipt.

What Lee could not see, and what James would not have said aloud to anyone, was that the economy wasn't coldness. It was the only register James had that he trusted not to make things worse—if I say the minimum, I cannot say the wrong thing—and he'd spent the corridor deciding that any real warmth from him would read as a promise the group might not be able to keep.

He saw Juhoon reach.

It definitely was the moment Lee thought about afterward, more than the silence in the corridor, more than the eight minutes outside the door. Juhoon stepped past the line the room had drawn without anyone naming it and said something ordinary and human and slightly too long, the way you do when you're seventeen and trying to make a stranger feel less like a stranger—and then he glanced sideways for someone to pick it up, the way it always worked in a group, the way it had always worked with these five since the trainee years.

Nobody picked it up.

James had already closed his part and gone still. Seonghyeon opened his mouth and lost his nerve halfway through a breath. Keonho held his position without so much as a blink. And Martin, at the edge of it, said nothing so deliberately that the nothing had a shape you could have traced with a finger.

Lee watched a seventeen-year-old realize, mid-sentence, that he was out past the group alone. He watched the sentence get finished anyway, because Juhoon was the kind of person who finished them regardless of what it cost. And he watched something go quiet in the boy's face that did not fully come back for the rest of the morning—not humiliation, exactly. The specific loneliness of finding out that a thing you'd always assumed was a we had turned out, on this one particular morning, to be a you.

He saw Seonghyeon watch her hands, and then her face, and then the way she'd angled her whole body so she was not the visual center of the room even standing dead in the middle of it, and he saw the sixteen-year-old file every degree of it with an attention that was almost clinical. What Lee read from the wall as shyness was in fact a boy quietly cataloguing, and what the boy was actually thinking—she hasn't eaten today, and she's not going to say so if anyone asks—went into him and stayed there and would still be sitting there, unmentioned, weeks later.

He saw Keonho hold his line perfectly, and hold it, and hold it, and then break it exactly once.

It was nothing, on the surface. She answered something in a low even voice, and something in the sound of it snagged on the maknae—a half-second of I know that from somewhere with no attachment behind it yet, the way a word surfaces briefly in the wrong language before your mind decides it must have imagined it. He turned it over once, found nothing to hang it on, and set it down. It didn't survive the morning intact. It would be weeks before it came back up whole, in a kitchen, over a hummed phrase at a sink, and by then he wouldn't remember that he'd felt it first here, in this room, on the very first day.

And he saw Martin say nothing.

Not the absence of a thing—a held nothing, worked at, maintained on purpose the way you hold a plank position past the point it stops being comfortable. Martin stood at the edge of the room with his arms at his sides and his whole body organized around not speaking, because the moment he spoke first he would become the person who had welcomed her, and he had not decided yet whether he was willing to be that in front of a company that had cut him out of the room where it mattered. It was the only leverage he had left that morning. He was seventeen, and it was a leverage that cost him nothing to hold and everything to use, and he used it, without quite meaning to, on a girl who had nothing to do with any of it.

Eleven minutes. Introductions completed, tone constructive.

——

They dispersed afterward the way water goes off a table, straight off five different edges.

Lee had expected them to cluster—that was his assumption walking in, that whatever this had done to them, it had done to them together, and they'd want to compare notes the second the door opened. Instead James went to find the choreographer before he'd even set his bag down, because there was a rebuilt formation to negotiate and a plan was a place to put yourself when there was nowhere else to stand. Juhoon went the other direction with his hands in his pockets, toward the vending machines nobody needed anything from. Seonghyeon vanished toward the practice rooms without a word to anyone. Keonho put an earphone in before he was fully out of the corridor.

Martin stood in the hallway a moment longer than the rest, and Lee watched him look back at the closed door of the room with an expression that was not far off grief, and then turn and walk away from it in the opposite direction from everyone else.

None of them asked each other how it had gone. Not that day. Not that week, not really—not until a night on a hospital corridor floor weeks later forced five separate accountings into one room at once, and by then each of them had spent so long believing his own version that comparing them felt less like relief than like being told a story he'd lived through had happened differently than he remembered.

Lee carried that out of the building that evening, past the front desk and out into the ordinary October traffic, and it stayed with him longer than the three days of cold coffee ever did: that five people had walked into a room that morning believing they were walking in together, and had walked out five separate ways, each of them privately certain that the other four had felt exactly what he had felt.

James thought the group had silently agreed to be professional. Juhoon thought the group had agreed to be careful, and that he alone had broken ranks by reaching. Seonghyeon thought the group had agreed to wait and watch, and that the message he'd sent the night before had been a small private betrayal of that agreement. Keonho thought the group had agreed to nothing at all, which was the closest anyone came to correct, and said so to no one. And Martin thought the group had agreed, somewhere in that terrible silent van ride, to be cold—and that his own silence in the room had simply been the correct execution of a decision nobody had actually made.

Not one of them was right and all five of them might even spend the next two months operating as though they were.

And Lee, who had watched the whole thing from the wall and understood most of it as it happened, wrote introductions completed, tone constructive into the record that would sit in a file cabinet for years, and drove home through the grey autumn evening—because he had already learned, in a room that smelled of cold coffee, that being the person who saw a thing clearly and wrote it down honestly was not the same thing as being the person who could stop it from happening.

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