We were laying in bed. He was staring at the ceiling while I read to him, but I knew he was paying attention. He was soaking up every word. I read him lots of my stories and poems, but I couldn't bring myself to read him the ones I wrote for him. Mostly because I think he would have known it.
He told me I had "talent" and I just stayed quiet. He asked me, "what could you do to get published?".
It seemed like a long time passed after that, but it was probably only a few seconds. I stared at the ceiling, too and I said, "You don't."
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