It’s still cold.
Your cheeks sting from tears you didn’t mean to cry—they just leaked out on their own, damn it, and now they’re frozen from the wintry air you still feel on your skin. The ghosts of snowflakes flutter around your ankles, and the memory of his touch warms your arms. You’ll find another unit, one that’s working properly, and you’ll be in control again when you go back. Then you’ll know what’s real and what isn’t, you won’t get lost in that virtual world again, you won’t get lost in him and that’s all that matters, right? If you’re in control of the program, then you’ll know what’s real.
What is real?
His touch. That’s real, it has to be, your heart knows it even if your mind refuses to believe. The way you feel for him, that’s real, too—more real than anything you’ve ever
