She is perfectly still. Motionless to one side of the bed, staring up at him. He sits with his legs hanging off the edge of the comforter, twisted at the waist so he can watch her with his too solemn expression. Idly she wonders if he is real. Narrowing her eyes, she considers this idea for a moment.

"Why are you here?" she asks finally.

"I love you." There is no hesitation in his answer. Straight forward. Honest.

She sighs and turns away. He's not really here. She wonders vaguely why all of her most life altering and important decisions happen in conversations that never take place with only a memory of a person. Who's to say if they are real or not-in the end, does it really matter?

"Go away," she whispers. "I don't need help proving I'm crazy."

"I'm here," he insists with a hint of frustration. He glances down and moves his hands as if he doesn't know what to do with them. When he reaches for her, she pulls away, unwilling to see if he actually could. It was better to remain skeptical than to be proven correct. It would hurt just that much more to find it all a lie.