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The pants are too tight in weird places and loose in others. The fly doesn’t zip all the way. There’s a suspicious stain on the thigh. You find a crumpled receipt from three years ago in the pocket, next to a mint that’s melted into the fabric. You wear them out of desperation, but you feel wrong all day. Exposed. Uncomfortable. And somehow, the pants keep sliding down, like they know they don’t belong to you.
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