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I remember the day we met, Chan. You had brought me a bouquet of flowers for our blind date; orchids. You had told me that they were meant to be given in life's precious moments. 

I still remember how they smelled. They smelled like you. 

Your eyes dart over to the pile of books on the bookshelf beside my side of the bed, and you know exactly which book to open. After all, I told you about it when I was still alive. 

The little album I had made in a journal I owned. 

And those orchids lay pressed between the pages, now stale and withered. 

Chan, I am sorry. I should not have taken my own life. 

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