“Are you okay?”

It’s chilly. Not cold, just chilly. Enough to make a person shake, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. Shaking uncontrollably, trying to control it because that’s what I do. I always need it to look like I’m fine, even when I’m not. Because the cold isn’t what’s making me shake.

I look up at Britney’s beaming face, one brow raised in curiosity as she watches me kneeling in the middle of the park. A chill breeze blows her bangs down over her eyes and she rushes to sweep them back, ever wondering why I’ve begun making a fool of myself out in public. She knows I hate crowds, and I especially hate drawing attention to myself, but that’s not even a concern at the moment. I’d forgotten just how stunning her blue eyes are, and how much I love the way her hair drifts in the wind with even the slightest gust.

I’m in love. So in love, in fact, that I think it’s very much time to make a severe and lasting commitment. That’s why we’d gone for a stroll in the middle of February, doing nothing but walking and getting lost in conversation. It’s why we’d ended up in that particular park—the same one that had been the location of our third date all those years ago. She had told me back then that she didn’t think our first date could be topped, but I kept pulling out new surprises for her.

I like to think that those surprises had never stopped, for either of us. Despite its rough patches, we’d been through heaven and hell together. There was no one else, and would never be anyone else.

“Donovan, are you okay?” she asks again, placing a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

I fumble around in my coat pocket, making sure it’s still there. This is the one day that I simply can’t afford to be forgetful. I’ve planed everything out meticulously, despite the fact that I’m not at all the planning type. If one thing falls apart, the entire thing will derail. No extra lives, no restarting from checkpoint. This is it.

I take her hand from my shoulder and hold it in both of mine, looking up at eyes that make my breathing shallow. “I love you, Britney. I’ll always love you.”

Her smile is intoxicating. You can say that it’s just the throes of youthful love, but something happens to a man when he connects so deeply and meaningfully with a woman. What others may find average or even unattractive, he believes to be a living, breathing goddess; and while I’m certainly not an irrational man, she’s captured me so completely that not a single thought crosses my mind when I look at her other than how much I adore her.

“I love you too,” she says, still beaming that radiant smile.

She knows where this is going, and she’s delighted. I can see it in her eyes. She hadn’t thought I would do this in public, around so many strangers who would all engage with the spectacle once they realized what was happening, and that only makes it more meaningful. She gets to be seen by the rest of the world as the wonderful object of my affections that she is.

Well, maybe not the rest of the world, but a small part of it.

I take the velvet-lined box out of my pocket and hold it up for her to see. One of her hands covers her mouth. I let go of the other one and open the box. It isn’t much—I’m not a rich man by any means—but I did the very best I could.

Both hands cover her face. She hadn’t been expecting it. I’m sure she knew I would try to make some grandiose gesture that almost certainly was beyond my reach, but I’ve exceeded even that. The down payment alone on the ring could’ve paid for my living expenses for the next year. Not to mention, it’s absolutely gorgeous. I don’t even know anything about rings or jewelry in general, but even I can see that it’s a quality piece of work.

She’s practically crying, and I don’t even know what my face is doing. It’s stuck somewhere between horribly nervous and absurdly joyful. I already know what her answer will be. I already know that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together. I even know that this is the most important moment of my life which will define my sense of self and happiness for the rest of my days. But still, I’m shaking uncontrollably, terrified and delighted at the thought of making it real.

I’m a writer, after all. Words are my bread and butter. It has to be perfect.

“I’ve waited so long to ask you this,” I say, still holding the ring in front of her. “But I’m glad I did. We’re both so much wiser and better prepared for it. It won’t be easy, and we’re going to have rough patches. But no matter what happens, I want to spend all the good and bad that life has to offer with you. I want to grow and change and experience all the joys and hardships with you, because I know that life with you will only make me a better person.”

I realize that I’ve rambled on for too long, but it’s too late for second thoughts. She doesn’t seem to mind, either way. Nothing I’m saying is news to either of us, nor is it anything that hasn’t been said before, but still the impact of the words is practically shaking me apart. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m about to follow it up with a commitment unlike any I’d ever made before; one that I truly intend to keep until the day I die.

“Britney, will you marry me?”

She’s in complete tears, and yet somehow she’s still positively radiant. If you told me that the entire universe revolved around her smile, I’d believe it.

“Yes,” she says, removing her hands from her face only to grasp at one of mine. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

I’m not sure which is supposed to come first—the kiss or the ring—but I can’t contain myself. I stand to my feet, pull her in close, and kiss her deeply. Nothing else exists in that moment. Not the park around us, not the people watching, not the birds fluttering by singing unintelligible songs. Just she and I.

Everything moves so quickly after the proposal. Not in reality; months are still months regardless of how much you achieve in between them, but it seems so rapturous. While the daily grind still continues, going to work every day and scraping by at a relatively successful business, wedding plans and announcements and parties occupy every second of free time.

I’d never thought I would enjoy the planning process, but I really do. Of course, Britney is the one doing the majority of the work—I’ve never had an eye for aesthetics and I’m not shy in admitting that I haven’t the first clue what would be nice for a wedding. I simply do my best to help, offering my opinions and contacting all the various planners and performers necessary for a ceremony. Because make no mistake, be he ordained by God or not, even the officiator of a wedding is only there to add weight and meaning to the proceedings.

My cynicism annoys her from time to time, but it’s hollow and usually only there to serve as the punch line of a joke. We have a tremendous time getting everything ready, and before we know it, eight months have passed.

The ceremony is held in the Fall, just before it starts to get too cold for an outdoor wedding, but far enough into the season that it isn’t too warm or humid. Fall has always been my favorite season.

When the day finally comes, I find myself standing at the end of a long walkway in front of a priest. On my left are the groomsmen: Troy, Adison, and two more of my friends. Across the aisle are her bridesmaids: her cousin, her two best friends, and my sister. Looking out over the crowd, I see all the people most dear to us. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. Even people I hadn’t expected to show up to the wedding. Our respective groups of friends and acquaintances isn’t exactly small, making the turnout rather large. I’d known the number due to the RSVP’s, but the sight of them all gathered to see us married takes my breath away. I’d never thought I would want a big wedding, but here I am, enjoying every bit of it.

Then she comes down the aisle, arm in arm with the man who raised me. She’d never known her father, whereas mine had always been the kind to welcome anyone into the family with open arms. They’re both so happy that they’re practically bawling already, and I can’t stop the surge of joy it brings seeing them together.

The officiation is a quick one. Neither of us wanted to stand there for twenty minutes listening to an old man talk about how sacred and important the union was. We know well enough already, and we had made our vows to each other long before the ceremony. The wedding itself is just a confirmation of those promises.

The party lasts damn near all day and night. I don’t know how she manages to stay in that dress for so long, dancing almost incessantly. I ditch the jacket and loafers as soon as possible, happy to run around with nothing but a shirt, vest and pants. The entire time, everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am. How proud they are of the man I’ve become, and that I’ve chosen an incredible woman to spend my life with.

It’s so strangely heartwarming to hear those things. There’s something about weddings that just puts everyone in a better mood, allowing them to say things that they might have otherwise always had reservations about. It’s just . . . pure joy, from every angle imaginable. It’s comforting to know that friends and family are genuinely happy for us and sending us all the positive energy in the world.

And of course, the real source of happiness is in knowing that this astounding woman has chosen to spend the rest of her life with me, of all people. The amount of confidence, enthusiasm, and sheer joy that knowledge brings me has no right being as powerful as it is.

Eventually, of course, the night slows to an end, and it’s just the two of us left in the catering hall. Dancing slowly, even though the DJ has already gone home and the only music we have is blasting weakly from the speakers of my phone. I don’t want this night to end, but I know that there will be a thousand more like them in the coming years.

Our first apartment is a fairly small one, due mainly to the fact that we move to Chicago for the betterment of both our careers. We’ve both been small town kids our entire lives, with our only big city experience having been a town that most would hardly consider a pit stop. In fact it literally was a pit stop—historically, that was always what it had best been known as. The gateway to the West.

Now we’re living life to its fullest, enjoying every single day in our shitty little apartment. I’d always hated the idea of moving out of Missouri and leaving everyone behind, but it isn’t so much of a change, really. Once or twice a month, we hop on the train and spend a weekend back home, seeing everyone about as often as we used to.

In time, job opportunities open up for both of us. Her modelling career takes off in full stride, and I begin apprenticing at a publishing agency. Income goes up, and so does our place in the world. Before, we had been living in a slum at the outskirts of town. Now, we’re five minutes away from the Magnificent Mile in a loft that you see in TV shows and movies.

I love the person that I become throughout the years of our marriage. I love biking through the city faster than the cars are able to move. I love spending evenings with her and cooking a meal in the home we’ve made for ourselves. I love going out for dates on the weekends to try out the latest attraction or the most talked-about new restaurant.

As we enter our late twenties, the topic of kids starts to come up more and more frequently. We both want them, but there’s quite a lot going on in our lives already. As our careers grow and our relationship along with them, it becomes clear that now is the time to focus on reaching a stable point in life before adding any new responsibilities. Some day.

Our first major disagreement takes place shortly after. We’re both offered further advancement in our careers, both demanding much more time than we currently spend at work. If we both take them, we virtually won’t see each other anymore. However, if we do it for even a short time, we could set ourselves up for tremendous success in the future.

She wants to accept her promotion, and I do want to accept mine in some way. But I’m the pragmatist; I know that we can survive just fine with what we have, and I don’t want to put such a heavy strain on our relationship. She feels guilty that I won’t accept my promotion, and thinks that she can’t accept hers because of it. I try to tell her that isn’t at all the case, but that’s what I’ve made it feel like, and by making my decision I effectively forced her to make hers, as well.

Months pass, during which a growing sense of coldness and isolation creeps in. Thankfully I’m not a complete idiot, nor am I adverse to the idea that our marriage would have difficulties. I’d already found a therapist to help me with my own demons, and it doesn’t take much to get a recommendation for a couple’s counselor.

We’re sitting in her office, both of us at opposite ends of the couch with a healthy three feet between us. We haven’t grown to hate each other, or even dislike each other really, but I think deep down she resents me for making my decision without consulting her. And in some way, I resent that resentment because I thought I was doing the right thing.

“So,” Michelle, the therapist, enunciates. This is our fifth session, and I feel like she’s beginning to wonder why we haven’t made much progress. “How are we feeling today?”

I shrug. Britney glances at me, wondering if I’m going to answer, and I decide why the hell not? We’ve been dancing around each other’s feelings for weeks. Maybe some brutal honesty will do us both good.

“Kinda frustrated, I guess.”

Michelle is eager to run with it. Personal therapy has helped me express myself a bit more openly, but in this subject I still tend to be reserved. The last thing I want is for Britney to feel like her emotions are inconsequential or outweighed by my own.

“Why do you feel frustrated?”

I shrug again. “I hate this. This weird distance between us. I know that neither of us are at fault, and in some weird way we’re both at fault, but I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Can it be fixed?”

What a strange question. It takes me a long moment to understand what Michelle is really asking, but eventually I feel like I put the dots together in at least a convincing enough pattern. The first thought that comes to mind when presented with a problem is how to solve it. What set of actions or circumstances need to take place in order to achieve the desired goal?

But moreover, does that even matter? Does it need to be fixed? What’s done is done, and regardless of how we may feel about it, there’s simply no changing it. In some cases—or in many cases regarding human interaction, really—it might not be possible to fix everything. In that case, the more important question is whether or not those two people can live with the consequences of their actions and still care for each other.

“No,” I admit. Britney looks at me curiously, and I look her in the eyes to explain myself. “I can’t change the past, and I can’t change how either of us feel about it. But I still love you. I still want to just move on and put all this behind us.”

The room is silent for a long time. Michelle wants to let the conversation breathe without interruption, and to give Britney space to process things for herself. Say what you will about incompetent therapists and the monetization of the American healthcare system, but every once in a while you find a truly good person who wants nothing more than to help you figure out your internal issues. I’d always been quite lucky in that regard.

It feels like ages while we wait in silence, but I know it must only be seconds. I give Britney her space and take a drink of my coffee. It tastes . . . odd. I usually only take my coffee black, or if I’m in the mood for something actually tasty I’ll get a latte with French vanilla. But it doesn’t taste like either. Instead it’s more like watered down milk—which, if you think about it, is kind of what a latte really amounts to, so maybe I’m just having an off day.

Amazing what can grab your attention when you’re waiting for the love of your life to tell you whether or not she wants to continue your life together. Coping mechanisms; life’s greatest distraction.

Finally, after what feels like weeks sitting in that office, she puts her hand on mine.

“Nothing is more important than our relationship,” she says, but there’s a stern look behind the compassion in her eyes. “I just need to know that we’re in this together. No matter what, decisions that’ll change both of our lives can’t be made alone.”

I nod, subconsciously frowning to show how serious I am. “You’re right. I didn’t realize that making my choice would affect how you viewed yours.”

She lets out a bottled breath. I’ve apologized a dozen times before, but apologies don’t count for much if the other person feels like you don’t understand what you did wrong. Now, knowing that I’m fully aware of it, she’s relieved.

“I haven’t been fair to you, either,” she says. “You did what you thought was right, and what probably was right for us. If you had talked to me about it, I think we would’ve eventually come to an agreement, so . . . just talk to me.”

I nod, squeezing her hand tightly. With that simple admission from both of us, the barrier between us starts to crumble. It doesn’t disappear entirely in one quick moment, but rather over the course of several months. Gradually we stop drifting apart, instead moving past the disagreements and coming together to work for the future. Popular fables and stories would have you believe that it’s all sunshine and roses once you kiss and make up, but that’s not quite how it goes. No matter what it is you want out of life, if it’s worth having, you have to work for it.

It just so happened that I would do anything for her.

Months turn into years. Despite turning down an opportunity most publishing house representatives would kill for, I’m able to make a decent enough name for myself as someone quite competent at most literary pursuits. I take on work as an editor, a consultant, and even begin publishing some of my own work. Conflicts of interest drive a wedge between me and the publishing house I’ve worked at for years, but striking out on my own proves to be the right call. Getting my creations out into the world and helping others do the same is such rewarding work.

Meanwhile, Britney finds nothing but success in her life, as well. By complete chance, her cousin visits Chicago for her work developing fragrances and aromas for a popular perfumerie, and her publicist decides Britney would be perfect as the face of their latest scent. A billboard goes up two weeks later on the Mile, as well as one in Times Square. It’s not often that I cruise through downtown, but every time I see that billboard it reminds me of how incredibly blessed I am.

At some point in life, it occurs to me how happy I am. Not that it’s bad or unusual, but there’s a strange sensation in the back of my mind suggesting that, for whatever reason, I shouldn’t be nearly as content as I am. That life shouldn’t be this good. It’s all too perfect. Life has its ups and downs, of course, but it all usually ends well. Even family quarrels, annoying coworkers, and the occasional spat with my spouse don’t tend to last long or dampen my spirits.

Then I tell myself that everyone who’s successful in life deals with those thoughts. Or at least, everyone who’s both successful and highly prone to depression. Try as I may, there’s a wire or two crossed in my brain that always convinces me to look at the negative even in wholly positive situations. It’s only through the support of my wife and regular check-ins with both my therapist and my family that I’m able to stay optimistic.

On my thirty-first birthday, Britney announces that she’s pregnant. We weren’t exactly trying, which makes it all the more surprising, but we weren’t not trying either. We’d both silently agreed that if it were to happen, we were ready. And my God, am I over the moon about it. The thought is terrifying at first, amplified by the unexpected nature of the pregnancy, but eventually that terror dulls down and gets completely drowned out by anticipation and excitement. Despite my fears and self-doubts, I’ve always wanted children, and I couldn’t have any more faith in someone than I have in Britney. I know she’ll always be there to provide what I lack as a parent. She’ll be such a wonderful mother.

Our daughter is born nine months later: a healthy baby girl weighing seven pounds exactly and measuring twenty-one inches tall. Usually when people say that babies have their parents’ features it’s total bullshit, because they're just a baby. They have to grow and change so much until they really look like anything. But she does have her mother’s beautiful eyes, sparkling blue almost as soon as they open. We name her Sarah.

The amount of wonder I have after we finally bring her home is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Life constantly throws you curveballs, bombarding you with new sensations and emotions well after you think you’ve learned all there is to know. Words like gratitude, humility, and joy seem completely inconsequential when you wake up in the morning and have breakfast with your wife and daughter for the first time. It’s as if there’s a whole new chapter of emotions and states of being that they just never invented words for.

They also tell you that no matter what, when you see your child for the first time, you love them unconditionally. But they don’t prepare you for how entirely it consumes your life. When you meet the person you’ll spend the rest of your life with, it is without a doubt one of the most powerful feelings in the world; and yet, somehow, seeing the life that you created together grow and change and become a person based off of what you teach it . . . it truly is indescribable. I’ve never been more proud of myself, my wife, or anything we’ve ever done together. Our children far surpass anything we’ve ever achieved.

And yes, plural. A year after Sarah is born, we learn that Britney is pregnant again. The timing could’ve been a bit better—we’d intended to wait until Sarah was a year or so older, but it’s not an unwelcome revelation. By the time Britney reaches nine months, our little girl is running and holding conversations and so very excited at the prospect of having a little brother.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

David is born just as healthy and beautiful as his sister was, though his birth is much harder on Britney than Sarah’s had been. Once we’re able to head home, I invite my parents to spend a few weeks with us to help take care of the kids while I tend to Britney. She’s not sick, or even dealing with mental or emotional issues. Instead it seems like her body simply couldn’t handle the duress of childbirth.

After a month consulting with the best doctors we could afford, we learn that she can no longer have children. Mistakes that were made when she was younger creep back up on her, making it impossible for her to conceive again.

She’s terrified, and for some silly reason, worried that she’s become damaged goods. I understand, of course. There are certain biological imperatives specific to an individual’s gender and brain chemistry; if I as a man suddenly couldn’t provide for my family, it would naturally make me feel incompetent and useless. But like most other outdated biological instincts, modern society has no place for it—and I’m quick to reassure her that the family we’ve made and the future we have together is all any of us need.

Visits from family members become more and more frequent as the kids grow up. All of our grandparents are retired, meaning they have far too much free time to come visit whenever they desire, and they don’t hesitate to take advantage of it. They’ve all hit their eighties and some are pushing into their nineties, so it makes sense. They want to spend as much time with their grandchildren as possible.

Come to think of it, it’s quite odd. It’s a morbid thought that crosses my mind, really, but that’s never bothered me before: I can’t think of a single family member that’s passed away. There’s always the extended family, the people you know you’re technically related to but don’t actually know or see often enough to consider family. But my parents and grandparents aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore, and neither are Britney’s. Yet I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been to a funeral.

I suppose that ultimately it’s a good thing, and I should simply count my blessings because there are plenty of them. Just after David’s first birthday, we move to a comfortable house on the outskirts of the city with plenty of room for us and whoever wants to visit. I’m more or less working from home full-time, converting the basement into a writer/editor’s paradise, while Britney’s work sees her taking on the role of a producer and design expert. She often consults on photo shoots, arranging everything from wardrobe to photographer choices, allowing her to still be a highly sought-after talent while making it home every night for dinner.

As I watch our children grow over the years, I’m reminded of that very first date we had when we were kids ourselves. Hell, I remember the first time we ever started acting in a romantic capacity towards one another. I was a shy kid and had taken way too much onto my shoulders during college, and I was working a late shift after a long day at school. It was exhausting.

Then, out of nowhere, she came into the store. We chatted for a bit, and I’m sure I made a complete ass out of myself simply due to how tired I was. Eventually she asked me for my phone number, and I was so out of it that I thought she just kept saying “Remember” over and over again. Finally my brain turned on for a moment, and naturally I gave it to her. It wasn’t more than a week or so later that we started dating.

And everything that had sprung from that—twenty years of marriage, a full and prosperous life together, and two gorgeous, amazing children—is simply astounding. To think that it could have ended at any point simply boggles my mind. We’d had that fight a few years into our marriage, and the one when we were kids. If we hadn’t . . .

Well, how had we solved that first fight? I remember that night perfectly, down to the very tiny details like what clothes she’d been wearing and the Powerade that someone had thrown in her yard. But after that, what had brought us back together? How had we worked through that? I shouldn’t have any problem remembering.

We . . . we hadn’t. We hadn't worked through it at all. We'd drifted apart after that night, because both of us had been too young and too stupid to understand what needed to be done to save the relationship. That had been the beginning of the end for us.

----------------------------------------

I stood up in my living room, staring at the deep brown walls with a terrible scowl bending my eyebrows. My heartbeat was quick and out of control, and my breathing had become rapid and shallow, but I couldn’t tell why. I couldn’t tell anything. Everywhere I looked, I saw memories and items that held significance for me, but I couldn’t tell you just what any of it was. It was all familiar, and yet somehow not so. Like I’d seen it in a dream, or like I was already in a dream and seeing things that I recognized from my waking life.

The house was big, much bigger than any I’d ever lived in. My house growing up had been a double-wide trailer not even large enough for me and my siblings, and every place of my own had been an apartment or a small house for rent. I’d never been used to the comforts of a large home, or the familiarity and security of suburbia. It had always been lower-class, and this place was just the opposite. It reeked of an owner (or pair of owners) who had obtained a financial security uncommon to someone like me.

And yet, I knew it was my house. It was my reclining lounger in the living room, sitting across from the seventy-five inch television that I still liked to play Kingdom Hearts on when time permitted. It was my pool cue hanging above the mantle; a gift from my dad despite the fact that I’d never become much of a pool player like he was. It was my picture in all the photographs on the wall, surrounded by the images of my family, friends, wife, and children.

God, it was Britney. My wife.

But she’s dead.

“You have to stop fighting.”

I spun to my right, nearly reaching for the grip of my pistol before realizing that I didn’t own any firearms. With the security systems on that house, no intruder would ever reach the front gate, let alone the front door.

But they had, because Claire was standing in my dining room.

“Claire,” I breathed.

“Please,” she begged. There was genuine sincerity in her voice, though for the life of me I didn’t understand why. I was still so confused that I couldn’t reconcile being in a house that both was and wasn’t mine, and I wasn’t sure why I knew the name of someone I couldn’t remember.

“What is this?” I asked, gesturing to the expansive living room around me. “I know this place, but . . . it feels wrong.”

“It’s not.” Her voice was quick and resolute. “It’s your life, exactly as you’ve lived it. The future that you’ve built for yourself.”

I paused to think for a moment, still not entirely okay with the fact that I couldn’t remember how I knew Claire. Her voice had popped into my head immediately, and I recognized her features without question. The long brown hair, the short pointed nose, the slender jawline. Every bit of it told me that the person standing before me was Claire Daniels, someone I trusted very deeply.

So how in the hell could I not remember anything else about her?

“No, something isn’t right.” I looked down at my hands, and I didn't recognize them. They weren’t scarred. My fingers weren’t thick and meaty like the hands of a man who’s spent most of his life performing manual labor. My palms weren’t rough and leathery like they should've been. I ran my hand through my hair, but found that there was hardly any hair to comb. It was cropped fairly short, a noticeable difference from the wild and wavy mess I usually kept it.

“Just stop!” Claire exclaimed, rushing a few steps forward as if to try to convince me something terrible would happen if I didn’t. “You don’t . . . you can be like this forever. Happy.”

I looked at her with a frown. “I am happy.”

“Then stop fighting. Stop looking for every little detail that seems out of place. You have everything you’ve ever wanted. Can’t you just accept it and let go?”

Let go.

Letting go was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and I’d had to do it more than once. I’d had to let go of too many people that I’d cared about. I’d had to let go of too many bad habits that had kept me wallowing in the darkest place a person can find himself. I’d had to let go of so many of the things I thought life would give me.

I looked at the picture of me and Britney on the wall, the one we’d taken during our first date twenty years ago. I’d had to let her go so many times. First, when we’d broken up. Next, when I’d realized what she really wanted from me. Then, when she’d died, I thought I had finally put everything between us to rest. I thought I had said goodbye for the last time, and that there was no more emotion within me that still tied us together.

But I was wrong. So much of my very identity as a person had been formed from our relationship and the way it had gone down in flames, to the point that even years later I was still mourning everything that could have been and everything that was never meant to be. And in spite of all of that, there was still a decidedly noticeable part of me that dreamed about what life would have been like if only we’d made it work.

That’s all any of it was. Just a dream within a dream.

“This isn’t real,” I said.

Claire didn’t answer, only frowning at me.

“None of this is real,” I repeated. This time, I took it all in; everything around me, all the detail and gravity of it. It felt so much like my home that I still couldn’t tell if it was or wasn’t. But slowly, the declaration brought about the sensations that I knew had been hiding somewhere in the back of my mind. Exact memories and specific bits of knowledge weren’t quite available, but enough came back to me that I knew I was on the right track.

“It’s real to you.”

“What the hell is that, new age wisdom?” I retorted. More of the real me slowly began bleeding through as I came to the conclusion that this life—the one of comfort and security that hadn’t ever been punctuated by tragedy or hardship—hadn’t actually been mine.

“It didn’t have to be like this. You could’ve stayed here indefinitely.”

“In what? A padded cage painted and dolled up to keep me sedated?” I wanted to do something drastic like punching through the wall, but I knew it was still a wall. Whatever this weird real-but-not-real space was, I wasn’t in control of it. It could still hurt me if I acted recklessly. The only thing I could control was myself.

“Like I said, it’s everything you ever wanted.”

“And how do you know that, huh?” I asked rather pointedly. “I never told you anything about Britney. I sure as shit never told you about the kids I wanted someday.”

Claire tapped the side of her head several times. “Indoctrination. Has an interesting way of messing with the mind.”

I sighed emphatically, even more confused than I had been only moments earlier. I hadn’t been indoctrinated, had I? The routine check-ups we’d constantly undergone had assured us of that. And as Azraean itself had mentioned, my cousins and I were much more immune to its effects than the average person.

Then it clicked. It all fell into place piece by piece, unveiling revelations of knowledge that I’d known had to have been there. It had all just been covered in a dense fog, only accessible upon the realization that this was all a figment of my imagination. In the real world—the tangible, fucked up place where I belonged—I was still unconscious on a battlefield somewhere deep in the Omega Nebula.

Claire had put me there. Which meant she had been indoctrinated. The therapy hadn’t worked.

My heart began to beat out of control the more I thought about it. All the implications, everything that I was going to wake up to . . . There was no more frightening thought.

“They got to you?” I breathed.

“No. Someone outsmarted them.”

It didn’t look like she was lying, but if she were under Reaper control, it may very well not have even been the Claire I knew. How could I take her seriously if she were merely a pawn? Furthermore, I knew the Reapers weren’t stupid enough to divulge any actual information through an indoctrinated agent.

But that only seemed to make more sense, in some way. Claire didn’t seem subjugated completely, like most of the other indoctrinated individuals we’d come across. They all retained their same personalities and even seemed to have some semblance of free will, but not like this. It was as if the woman I’d known had just been playing us from the start; this really had been her the whole time, and she was just now showing her true colors.

So it begged the question, who could outsmart the Reapers, and who had the power or even the desire to indoctrinate someone?

The answer immediately came to mind: the Illusive Man. Lawson hadn't been bullshitting us. TIM and Miranda were working together, and he had devised some devious plan to hijack the indoctrination signal that had supposedly been cured by the Wardens' technology. If Cerberus could do that . . .

“You’re sharper than you let on, you know that?”

Well that wasn’t patronizing at all.

“So you can read my mind?” I asked, suddenly terrified of everything that notion might entail.

“Not exactly. While you’re under, I have limited access to thoughts, memories, even a bit of hypnotic suggestion. But you’ve been resisting far too much for me to continue with the charade.”

“The charade of my life,” I exclaimed indignantly. “I experienced all of that—felt every emotion like it was another life I lived. And now it’s . . . what, a fantasy? A dream too good to be true?”

Claire shrugged, leaning on the dining room table inconsequentially. “That’s up to you.”

That only deepened the frown on my face. What had started as fear quickly made the transition to anger, then sadness, then confusion, constantly rotating so that I couldn’t decide if I wanted to fight my way out of this mess or if I needed to seriously begin worrying about Claire’s well-being. Given everything that was happening and the violent cocktail of emotions I was experiencing, it felt like I didn’t have enough room to take on concern for anyone else.

But the fact remained, someone I cared strongly for stood in my fake dining room telling me that she had been indoctrinated, and was attempting to do the same to me. There had been an unbelievable amount of ridiculous shit to deal with throughout the war, but this one really took the cake.

“How do we get out of here?” I asked.

“We?”

“Yeah, we. There’s shit going on in the real world. They need us.”

She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “You understand that I’m the one doing this to you, right?”

“Yeah, I get that. But you’re also here trying to hash things out with me. I’m not stupid. The Wardens said that me and the guys are more immune to indoctrination than most, so I’m guessing it’s not going over real well. We can break free.”

I surprised her, I thought, with just how much I understood. That, or she’d expected me to take much longer to fully reconcile what was happening. Truthfully I hadn’t, but my brain had been designed to partition trauma behind a wall so that it could be dealt with at a later date. All that heartbreak and tragedy finally seemed to be paying off in the most unforeseen way possible. Maybe I had some reason to be grateful for all the shit I hated about myself.

“I’m not doing that,” Claire said after a few moments of being taken aback. “This is the best solution. If you leave, you’ll be throwing your life away.”

“Then at least it’ll be my choice,” I quickly retorted. “They haven’t taken that away from you yet, right? You’d be a drooling mess if you were completely under their control.”

“Donovan, if you don’t stop—”

“I’m not going to.”

I stared deeply into her eyes, showing her that I’d made my choice well before the start of the conversation. In spite of the doubt and concern still hanging in the air like a raincloud, I’d already decided on a course of action. While the perfect life surrounding me sounded great and felt even better, it wasn’t real. I’d dealt with enough bullshit to know that I didn’t want anything but the pure truth for the rest of my life, even if that meant an existence much shittier than the ones I could come up with in my head.

Consequences be damned.

Claire sighed, and I thought that she actually was disheartened that I wouldn’t submit. No doubt her handlers were manipulating her into thinking that this was the best course of action for both of us, but they couldn’t eradicate the fact that she considered me a friend. Whatever was about to happen, she didn’t want it any more than I did.

Then I heard footsteps from the staircase leading to the second floor. It was always easy to hear when someone was entering the living room from the second floor due to the hardwood stairs. The bedrooms and hallways upstairs were covered in plush carpet, so no one ever wore socks up there. When they came down to the living room late at night, you could always hear feet slapping against the floor.

Funny that I still knew that despite also knowing that this reality was only in my imagination. Coming to my senses hadn’t destroyed the fake life I’d lived.

When I looked up to see who was coming, what had been a violent mix of emotions distilled into just one. My entire family—my daughter, Sarah; my son, David; and my wife, Britney—were all descending the staircase to come greet me.

Low fucking blow.

“Don’t do this,” I said to Claire, but she just stared back at me as if to imply that it was my own doing.

I didn’t think I could go through with it. They were just figments of my imagination, true, but my life with them had been one that truly felt real. It was as if I had lived two lives, and there was no debating which was the better of the two. I’d spent twenty years with a woman who had helped me grow into a wonderful father and hopefully a great husband. I’d raised two children who I loved far more than my own life. I even had good relationships with friends and family members who I’d never gotten along with in the real world.

Walking out without a word would’ve been easy. I’ve always been good at that. I can shut down and isolate pain and guilt like no one else I’ve ever known, if only I’m not directly faced with the object of that guilt. If I needed to cut someone out of my life, easy; just drop all contact and leave without a word. Never put in any effort, otherwise you’re just acknowledging that you still care and therefore you’re a piece of shit by abandoning that relationship.

But coming face to face with them and admitting that you’re going to stop caring . . . that’s a version of hell unlike any other.

“Please,” I begged, giving Claire one last desperate look of anguish. “I . . . I can’t.”

“Dad?”

David called out to me and I turned to face him, finding that he had already reached the living room well before his mother and sister. When I looked over to yell and scream and barter with Claire so that I didn’t have to do this, there was only empty air in the space she’d been occupying.

I was alone.

“Dad, they said you’re leaving.” David rushed at me and I wanted to run away—to do anything other than accept his embrace—but I couldn’t move. I was rooted to the spot, unable to even breathe for fear of what it might do to me.

“You’re not leaving, right daddy?” Sarah followed suit and grabbed around my stomach while her brother latched on to my legs. They were so young, I couldn’t just leave. I couldn’t do this to them.

I couldn’t do this to myself.

I knelt down so that we were on eye level and just acknowledged both of them. They existed. They were my kids, whether that was all in my head or not. It had happened. And as a great man once said, why did it matter if everything was only an illusion? All that truly matters in life is what we feel, and what we pass on to the rest of the world.

I put my arms around both of them and drew them in close. It was crazy to think of just how much affection I had for two little beings that weren’t even really my children, but did that matter in the slightest? My mind was full of memories that brought me nothing but joy every time I thought of them. I could remember the days they were born in perfect detail, every immaculate and grief-stricken moment. I remembered every birthday, every baseball lesson, every first day at school, every tear they’d cried.

And now I had to say goodbye.

I exhaled deeply and tried to calm my shaking body. “You two are the greatest things to have ever come from me,” I said. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted from life. But . . . I have to go.”

And then, as if just saying the words held some sort of power over this fiction I’d dreamed up, I was holding onto nothing. They had disappeared right before me, only leaving the empty space they’d been standing in.

Tears began welling up in my eyes, even though I’d shut them tight. Somehow, I thought that if I didn’t look—if I didn’t actually see it, and therefore didn’t acknowledge the lack of their existence—that maybe it would be easier. Maybe I could minimize the damage if only I pretended it wasn’t there.

But I wasn’t allowed such a luxury. Moments later, the spot my children had been in only seconds earlier became occupied once more. This time, it was by their mother. I knew it even without seeing her; the smell of her perfume was immediately recognizable. She wore it every day except Saturdays, when she would put on something just a touch more flowery and delicate. I’d grown so accustomed to her presence that I could feel her even with no physical indicators that she was there.

“Are you okay?”

It was chilly. Not cold, just chilly. Enough to make a person shake, and that was exactly what I was doing. Shaking uncontrollably, trying to control it because that’s what I do. I always need it to look like I’m fine, even when I’m not. Because the cold wasn’t what made me shake.

I opened my eyes to take it all in—to experience the hurricane of sorrow that was sure to follow—only to find my endearing wife staring right back at me with a soft smile. Always. She had a kind soul that could melt a frozen one like mine without a single issue, and that was one of the many reasons I was so terrified to leave it all behind. Without that vibrance to keep me in line, I knew that the life I had to return to would be one in which I was a much lesser person. One who had never gotten to experience an entire life next to someone so full of wonder and beauty.

But I had to. I couldn’t stay there, in that place where even happiness held a sort of hollow brilliance. I would always wonder about the life that never was. I would always question the world around me, looking for the dark that had forced me to grow into such a resilient person. Sure, I still had a long way to go, but it was a life worth living. One in which I was meant to endure tribulations and help others get through theirs. This perfect life, while captivating and contented, saw me living only for myself and my family.

As much as I wanted that, I had responsibilities. I would never be truly happy, even while living in perfection.

I stared Britney in the eyes, in those sparkling blue sapphires that had always been so enrapturing. This would be the last time I’d ever see them.

“This means everything to me,” I whispered. “I wish it could’ve been different.”

She knew precisely what I meant, and she understood. Of course, she was literally me, projecting my subconscious perceptions of the woman I’d once known mixed with the idealized version of her that allowed this fantasy in which we’d spent our lives together. But even so, staring deep into her soul, I thought I saw a glimmer of truth there.

She nodded, and didn’t try to argue. She didn’t even seem upset, despite the tears pooling in her eyes like the ones that were streaming down my face. Instead she took my hands, wrapped them in hers, and held them tight.

“I love you,” she said.

That was the moment that I almost gave up. Every bone in my body, every molecule in my brain, and every emotion in my soul told me to stay there with her for the rest of eternity. We could’ve lived our entire lives together, grown old and grumpy with each other, and watched our family live their own lives. I could’ve lived in blissful ignorance of everything going on in the real world, living out my fantasies while the world itself crumbled around me. Shepard probably would’ve done just fine without me.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up.

“I love you,” I said, “and I let you go.”

She smiled one last time, that beautiful, kind, radiant smile that always made my heart melt, and then she too was gone. Slowly the home I’d built for us in my dreams blurred out of existence as tears crowded my eyes, and then the world simply ceased to exist. Instead it was replaced by the black of nothingness, the hollow void of what had once been a full and rich life.

I doubled over, closed my eyes, and screamed. A heart-wrenching, guttural groan of anguish that I’d been holding in since before I’d even met her. It was ten years in the making, releasing every bit of brokenness and pain that I’d accumulated in all that time. A true casting away of everything that had been weighing me down for so long.

Then I was left alone, with not even the black to keep me company.