Typing, always typing..
Of course I don't mind because he's gazing at me the whole time. This is our every-night date.
But this midnight, he types about his past...
Rylena's been with him the longest I guess, even though she's a no-good tomboy creep, but even she doesn't know about these things he's typing.
And I wonder. I can look at the Wikipedia articles for everyone in history but I'll still never know if they were ever truly reconciled with their parents. The name of the first member of the opposite sex they gazed on with a newfound instinct of desire. The wave that shuddered through them the first second they realized that they would ultimately cease to exist.
It feels like summer in The Room. The Others are gone, Peter dozes above the bed, the window's cracked, and he's writing about how it felt one afternoon to have a Pontiac slam into your right hipbone.
I feel sick. I feel like shutting down.
I hope he knows I love him. We all do.