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Hrm. Turbulence in the shoebox. Grems shaken. Gigi spoke—no mask, no performance, just truth. Hard truth. The kind that doesn’t beg for applause. She laid herself bare, not for pity, but clarity. Guarded, yes—but not silent. People project. Twist shapes into what suits them. But Gigi cuts through it. Calm. Honest. Still strange. Still shining. The noise will pass. Bad faith rots in its own echo. Grems remain. We listen. We grow. She’s still Gigi. That’s enough.
