This is the space for what-could-have-been. Some call it dreaming, but you and I know better. Dreaming is what you do without trying, and this, my girl, is full of effort.
You are sitting beside your true love on the sofa, a fire in the fireplace you don’t have, your legs hooked over his. You press your face into the crook of his neck and smell his skin, like erasers and willow bark. You are not talking about anything. Words are not allowed in what-could-have-been. Their power is too potent, and this place is already unstable. There, around the edges, the blur of reality is already seeping in.
You have one more minute. Feel the particular oil of his neck against your cheek. Feel his earlobe, his lip, the stretch of skin between finger and thumb. Feel his heartbeat, pumping against yours.
Okay, my girl. Enough of this. Time to go home. (Return to section H).