The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. Not the gentle kind that patters on leaves, but the synthetic kind—the kind that falls in perfect, repeating vectors inside a simulation that’s slowly forgetting how to be real.
“Because the real one was sad.”
Or worse—will he stay, but rendered wrong?
“And that bothered you more than me being sad?”
I opened my diary. The pages were warm. The next blank line was pulsing .