The sun was too bright that summer. I remember the way the grass prickled my legs when I sat in it too long. The way the sky looked like a giant sheet painted with watercolors, melting together — soft blues, pinks, and that strange white-yellow haze that never felt real.

  April was laughing. Her hair was in messy pigtails, and she wore a too-big denim jacket she swore made her look "like a spy."

  I was trying to build a cardboard spaceship. She was running in circles pretending to be an alien with a laser gun made of sticks and tape.

  We didn’t have many friends. Just each other.

  “Captain Oskar!” she yelled, arms flailing. “The Martian fleet is invading!”

  I ducked under the cardboard wing, peeking through the flap we cut for a window. “We’ll fight them off! Grab the plasma core!”

  “You mean the rock?”

  “No, the other rock!”

  She picked up a bigger one and tossed it at me. “Got it!”

  We collapsed in a heap, laughing. The kind of laugh that only kids can do, where it takes over your whole body and you forget why you’re even laughing in the first place.

  On a perfect winter, where the snow actually stayed white and the air felt like magic. Our breath puffed out in little clouds as we ran through the neighborhood, stomping fresh tracks in untouched snow.

  We had built this awful-looking snowman. He was lumpy, one eye too high, and his smile crooked with half a candy cane. But April named him “Sir Snoopsicle,” knight of the snowy realm. She said he was our official guard, sworn to protect our backyard fort.

  We spent hours out there. Our gloves soaked through, noses red, but we didn’t care. She made up this whole story about how the snowman had once been a real warrior who saved a kingdom, cursed to turn to snow until two chosen kids — us — freed him.

  To do that, we had to find “the heart of fire” — a red marble she’d hidden somewhere in the yard. We dug around in the snow until we found it in a little tin box behind a tree. She held it up like it was a treasure from a forgotten world.

  We never told anyone about that day.

  It was just ours.

  But to be fair no one else would think of it as a particularly interesting or memorable memory.

  Now it’s dark.

  The ceiling in this mansion room is too clean. Too untouched. It feels fake.

  I lie on my back, arms limp, heart slow. The high is running out. I can feel it draining like color fading from a dream.

  Only two vials left now.

  I reach into the drawer, touch the cool glass of one of them, then close it again. I kinda want to save them for something… bigger. Something important. Not this.

  But god… I like this feeling. That clarity. That power.

  Even if I think it made me lose something.

  Or someone.

  Maybe everything.

  The door creaks open.

  Azuria walks in, gentle as always. Still wearing that artificial smile. “Is there anything you need before I power down for the night, sir?”

  I stare at the ceiling.

  "I don't know," I say.

  And I mean it.

  She nods and quietly exits.

  I turn to face the wall. Pull the blanket over my head. Try to breathe. Try not to think.

  Eventually, everything goes still.

  And I fall into a long, heavy, dreamless sleep.

  The memory comes to me like a film reel catching in the projector — jittery, full of skips and flutters, then suddenly smooth and loud.

  It was one of those dry, cloudy days that made the world feel a little softer. A local playground sat tucked behind a row of quiet apartment buildings, faded paint peeling from monkey bars and slides dulled by time. I didn’t come here often — just when I needed to get out of the house. Away from yelling. Away from silence. Away from everything.

  I was seven. Maybe eight. I don’t remember much of that morning, just that I’d brought my sketchbook with me. I liked sitting at the top of the jungle gym and pretending I was a spy, or a lookout on a ship, or a sentry on a moon base. Anything but a kid sitting alone in a city that didn’t seem to care.

  I was halfway through drawing a spaceship — crooked and lopsided like all my ships — when I heard her voice.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” she said.

  I blinked and looked down. A girl with tangled black hair and scuffed-up boots stood at the bottom of the structure, arms crossed like she owned the place. She had this look on her face like she was always about to either punch you or help you. I couldn’t tell which.

  “Doing what wrong?” I asked.

  She pointed up. “Your thrusters. If you put them there, it’ll spin out. You need them near the base, like this.” She climbed up without asking, plopped down beside me, and drew a quick, messy correction on the page.

  She was right. It looked better.

  “You know ships?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I know a lot of stuff.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “April,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Oskar.”

  We sat in silence for a bit. She pulled a bag of sunflower seeds out of her pocket, offered me some, and I shook my head.

  Then she looked at me real serious and asked, “Are you lonely?”

  The question hit me harder than I expected. I didn’t answer.

  She looked at the drawing again. “It’s okay. I used to be too. But now I’m not.”

  “Why not?”

  She grinned, that lopsided grin of hers that I’d come to know well. “Because now I have a friend.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “You.”

  Just like that.

  Like it wasn’t even a question.

  I nodded slowly and looked back at the paper. She picked up the pencil and kept sketching — adding little control panels and rocket fins and a hatch for "escape pods." We stayed like that for a long time.

  That was the first time I felt like maybe I wasn’t just a background character in someone else’s story. Maybe I mattered too.

  That was the day April became my friend. My first friend. My best friend.

  You may be wondering, when did I forget about her?

  How I first ‘met’ her at Judy’s place?

  How I knew Judy? Well that one’s simple, I knew her through April. But I guess she wasn’t real either. Or her friend Ember. Fuck me. I’m so pathetic I had to create all my friends in my imagination.

  To be honest with you, I’m not sure about a lot of things. Things just don’t make sense and I’m either bothered enough to make it make sense or I just accept it and ignore it.

  I wake up.

  No dreams. Just that faint ache in the middle of my chest — like my brain forgot how to breathe overnight. I stare at the ceiling for a while. The same one I stared at before falling asleep. Still quiet. Still blank.

  Azuria’s not here. Probably off doing whatever bots do in the morning. Or maybe she’s waiting for me to call her. Either way, I pull myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. I don't really feel like doing anything today, but I go through the motions anyway.

  After all, it’s a workday.

  By the time I make it to the front door, I hesitate. My hand rests on the doorknob, but I glance back down the hall toward the master bedroom.

  I wonder if I should move my stuff in there. Might as well. This is my house now — I guess. April’s house, technically. But she's... gone? Maybe? My bag and the box I salvaged from my apartment fire are still tucked away in the guest room. That’s all I have left.

  Actually... no one ever contacted me about the fire, huh. No follow-up, no investigator, no insurance guy. That’s weird, right? I guess maybe I mistook one of the cops for April during the aftermath. Or maybe she showed up and smoothed things over before I even noticed. Or maybe... I just imagined the whole thing.

  Whatever this place looks nicer, and I don’t have to worry about rent. I think Azuria takes care of the bills too. I lock the door behind me and begin my long journey to work. Only downside to living here is I’m more like 50 minute walk away rather than 5 minutes. Maybe even longer.

  The bell above the door jingles as I push into Byte Haven.

  It’s always quiet this early. Still smells like thermal paste and old cardboard — like it’s baked into the walls. Sunlight barely filters in through the dusty front windows. The store’s cramped, with glass display cases showing off motherboards and custom cables no one’s bought in months. A couple of unopened GPU boxes sit up high, more for decoration than anything.

  I walk past the counter and head into the back room where the real work happens.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Cooper’s already there, hunched over a tower case. He’s got his headphones on, one ear free, tapping a screwdriver against his leg while he waits for something to finish installing. His side of the room’s tidier than mine. Always is. We’ve worked side by side for almost a year now, maybe longer. Same space. Different tasks. Never really talked unless we had to.

  He glances up as I sit down at my bench.

  “Morning,” he says. Just that.

  I nod back. “Hey.”

  He looks at me for a second too long. Then goes back to work, pretending like he didn’t notice something was off.

  I power on the ancient laptop I left half-dissembled yesterday. The fan screeches, rattles, then dies. I sigh and start unscrewing the back again. Just another day.

  About fifteen minutes pass in silence, save for the occasional clack of keys, hum of the old ceiling fan, and Cooper muttering at whatever diagnostics he’s running. Eventually, he speaks again.

  “You alright?”

  I look up. “Yeah. Why?”

  He shrugs, still focused on the machine. “I dunno. You just seem a little… I don’t know. Off. Quieter than usual.”

  Quieter than usual. That’s saying something.

  “Didn’t sleep well,” I lie. Sort of.

  He just nods like he gets it. Doesn't press.

  We both go back to our tasks. He’s installing a cooling system on a custom build; I’m trying to convince this ancient piece of junk to boot without exploding. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. But I can feel the gap between us like static.

  After a while, he speaks again.

  “There’s this tech expo next week. Down at the convention center. A bunch of new stuff from NeoFactor and others. Could be cool. If you’re into that.”

  I glance over.

  “Maybe.”

  Cooper doesn’t push it, just gives me a quick nod before going back to work.

  I appreciate it, even if I don’t say it out loud. He's not trying too hard. Just… offering.

  I want to connect. Or maybe I just want to be someone again. Someone real. I don’t know. The truth is, I’ve been floating. Lost. Since last night.

  I let the hum of the electronics fill the space again, trying not to think about how much quieter things have gotten since my life fell off a cliff.

  First steps in friendship are always the worst. Awkward. Uneven. Like trying to walk through ankle-deep water.

  But maybe Cooper’s okay. Maybe this isn’t ankle-deep. Maybe it’s just a shallow step. Maybe I could take it.

  Eventually.

  The week creeps by slower than usual, but Friday lands sooner than I expect.

  Cooper reminds me about the tech expo again that morning at work. I almost say no. Almost. But something in me doesn’t want to sit at home doing nothing. So I say, “Yeah, sure.”

  He looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting me to agree. But then he smiles. “Cool. It’ll be fun.”

  We head there after closing up shop, the two of us walking through the city’s west district toward the glass-paneled NeoFactor Convention Hall. The streets are crowded with people wearing branded hoodies, cybernetic limbs on display, and little AR drones floating overhead capturing everything for some corporate stream.

  Inside, the place is massive. Neon signs hover over different exhibition zones — security bots, bionic limbs, cognitive implant tech, vehicle AI systems, and things I don’t even have names for. The air smells like new plastic and ozone. It’s loud, chaotic, alive.

  NeoFactor’s booth dominates the north wing, complete with a massive projection of their logo — that silver shield-shaped emblem like a badge of corporate wealth and nothing can put them down. There’s a crowd forming around the stage, so we drift that way too.

  A woman in a high-collared blazer takes the mic — sharp eyes, buzzed sides, pale silver hair. That’s Yura Sahn, NeoFactor’s CTO. Quietly famous in tech circles. Former combat engineer, rumored to have designed a full-scale drone defense system for an entire city. Cold, efficient, always three steps ahead. She's not the type to smile, but when she talks, people listen. She speaks now about the future of urban AI infrastructure, how they’re building toward a city that can predict — and prevent — crime before it happens.

  I almost zone out until the next speaker’s name is mentioned.

  “Please welcome NeoFactor’s CEO — Cassim Korraveth.”

  The crowd claps. Cooper glances at me. “That guy’s intense,” he mutters.

  Cassim steps up to the podium, dressed like he’s about to go hunting: long dark coat, sharp boots, glowing implants tracing down one side of his face. His voice is deep, calm, and just a little too rehearsed.

  He talks big — about technological freedom, power to the people, neural parity, cities run by intelligent code. But behind the words, I feel that same thing I felt back in Artebot’s underground meeting: calculation. Like he already knows what questions you're going to ask, what you’re afraid of, and how to sell you the answer.

  I drift a little during his speech, checking my phone out of habit. Two unread messages from an unknown number.

  Unknown: You like carnivals, right?

  Unknown: You should’ve stayed in the rabbit hole.

  I slip the phone away.

  When the presentation ends, Cooper and I wander off into the lesser-known booths — student projects, niche startups, weird off-grid tech. He’s chattering a little now, more relaxed than I’ve seen him. I nod along, smile when I remember to.

  But something nags at me.

  Yura Sahn. Cassim Korraveth. Artebot. The Venom vials still hidden in my room.

  I feel like the whole city’s watching through glass I can’t see. And I’m the only one being reflected wrong.

  Through the buzz of shifting crowds and the electric hum of drone-cams zipping overhead, I hear it—my name.

  "Oskar."

  I freeze. Turn around slowly. The expo lights blur for a moment before my eyes lock onto her.

  April.

  There she is. Standing between two demo booths like she’s part of the background—only she never could be. Her copper-toned skin glows subtly beneath the soft blue lights overhead, those tight curls falling around her shoulders, as wild and perfect as ever. She’s wearing that oversized hoodie again, sleeves swallowed up over her hands, just like the old days.

  I knew it. Had to be the Venom. Explains everything.

  But not here. Not in front of everyone.

  Can’t look like I’m talking to air.

  I spot NeoDrive’s vehicle section in the distance, full of chrome-bodied sedans and sleek two-wheel prototypes that gleam like they're forged from moonlight. Perfect excuse.

  “Gonna check out the cars,” I say to Cooper, who’s busy calibrating some modular hardware for a customer.

  He barely nods. “Cool, man.”

  I slip off through the crowd, weaving past augmented food stalls and holographic pop-up ads until I duck into a public bathroom tucked behind a column. It’s quiet—sterile, humming, smelling faintly of cleanser and synthetic pine.

  “Alright,” I mutter, bracing my hands on the sink. “You can come out now.”

  April steps forward, reflected behind me in the mirror.

  God, she looks exactly the same. Deep brown eyes, full lips, those defined cheekbones, the slight arch in her brows that always made her look like she was quietly judging the world. Somehow, that hoodie still fits her like it belongs. Like she belongs.

  “You saw me,” she says gently.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Figured it was you the second I started feeling like I lost my mind.”

  She crosses her arms. “You didn’t lose it. You just started asking questions you weren’t supposed to.”

  “You were gone,” I say. “Azuria didn’t remember you. Ember, Judy—none of it. It’s like you never existed.”

  She sighs. “Maybe I didn’t. Not the way you thought.”

  I narrow my eyes at her reflection. “So what are you, then? A drug trip? A hallucination? A ghost from a broken memory?”

  April looks at me with something softer than pity. “Maybe I’m all of those. Maybe I’m just the part of you that remembers what it was like to feel safe.”

  I look down at the sink.

  “You said I needed you.”

  “You do.”

  I scoff. “I want you. But I don’t need this. I don’t need... fake.”

  April steps closer behind me. “I’m not fake. I’m you. A part of you. And I don’t think you’re ready to let go yet.”

  My knuckles go white gripping the sink’s edge.

  She waits.

  Two vials left.

  Just two more hits.

  And every time I use it, she comes back a little clearer. A little more real.

  “I want you to be real,” I whisper.

  April meets my eyes in the mirror. “Then make me real.”

  I gripped the sink tighter, my knuckles pale and trembling. My chest felt like it was caving in, like if I let go, I’d fall through the floor. “You should’ve told me.”

  April didn’t move. She stood in the center of the bathroom like she belonged there, calm as ever. Like she was carved from still water. “Would you have believed me if I had?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped. “But at least it would’ve been real. You let me think you were—someone. You were my friend.”

  “I am your friend,” she said gently, like the sound of my voice didn’t shake her.

  I turned on her fully, voice breaking. “You can’t be. You’re not real, April. You’re something I made up when I was a kid so I wouldn’t feel alone.”

  “And it worked,” she said, like that was enough.

  I stared at her. At the copper skin, the black curly hair that always bounced when she laughed. The warmth in her eyes that never changed, even now. “You should’ve gone away a long time ago. Why are you still here?”

  She took a careful step toward me. “Because you never stopped needing me.”

  “Stop saying that,” I growled.

  “It’s true.”

  “No, it’s not!” My voice echoed across the tiled walls, too loud, too exposed. “You think I want to be the kind of guy who clings to a hallucination because real people are too much for him?”

  She looked at me like she knew me better than I did. “Yes.”

  God, that hurt. More than it should’ve.

  I turned away, pacing a few steps like it would burn the feeling off. “So what now? You just live in my head forever? Shadow me like some AI parasite that knows all my weak points?”

  “I’m not haunting you, Oskar,” she said. “I’m here because you made me strong enough to stay.”

  I shook my head. “You lied to me.”

  “I did,” she said without flinching. “Because the truth would’ve hurt worse than the lie. And maybe I was selfish too. Maybe I didn’t want to go.”

  The room felt small. Too quiet. My pulse throbbed in my ears.

  “You lied to me,” I said again, softer this time.

  April just nodded. “I know.”

  I met her eyes in the mirror. Her reflection stood behind me, hands at her sides, unflinching, so familiar it felt like I’d grown up with her inside my bones.

  “I hate you,” I muttered.

  She smiled faintly. “No you don’t.”

  I didn’t answer.

  I couldn’t.

  “I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I admitted, staring at my own reflection like it might shatter.

  “I do,” she said behind me.

  I watched her in the glass as she reached up and placed a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t feel it—but I wanted to.

  “I’ve only got two vials left,” I said quietly.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I’m not using them on you.”

  “You already are.”

  I let out a shaky breath. My jaw was tight. My eyes burned.

  “I’m tired, April.”

  “I know,” she said again.

  I didn’t move.

  I didn’t know how to anymore.

  I just stood there with her behind me. With the truth finally out. With a reflection I couldn’t shake. And all the pieces of me scattered across the floor.

  A tear slipped down before I could stop it.

  I clenched my jaw, breathing through my nose like it would make it go away. Like maybe I could just blink and erase it—like the sting behind my eyes was something physical I could beat by force of will alone.

  But it didn’t stop. Another one followed, slower this time. Then more. I grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it hard against my face, as if I could soak it all up before it showed.

  No one’s here, I told myself. No one can see you.

  And still I couldn’t let go.

  Still, I fought it.

  I leaned over the sink, hands braced against the porcelain. My shoulders started shaking, silent and stiff. I tried to hold my breath, like maybe the ache in my chest wouldn’t swell if I didn’t give it air.

  But it came anyway.

  I let out a sound—barely a breath—but it cracked as it left me.

  Everything I’d held back all week was pressing against the inside of my ribcage, trying to claw its way out. The fire. The venom. April. Everything. I didn’t even know what part of it hurt most.

  “Why…” I whispered, barely audible even to myself. “Why did you have to feel real?”

  I didn’t expect an answer.

  April didn’t say anything. She stood in the same spot behind me, hands clasped, eyes soft. Watching me fall apart without judgment. I hated her for that. And I needed her for that.

  I pulled another paper towel. Then another. My fingers were trembling.

  After a while, the tears stopped. Or maybe they didn’t—I couldn’t tell. My face felt raw. My eyes burned. The mirror was fogged where I’d leaned close, but I didn’t bother wiping it clean.

  I looked like hell.

  But somehow, I felt… quieter. Like the storm had finally cracked and was starting to roll off in the distance.

  I straightened up and rinsed my face with cold water. The chill grounded me just enough to move again. I patted myself dry, ran a hand through my hair, and took one last look in the mirror.

  I was still here.

  That was something.

  April was gone from the reflection now. Or maybe she’d never really been there.

  Cooper was posted up near one of the slick Neodrive prototypes—an all-black, low-slung cruiser with a glass canopy and a neural interface socket built into the dash. His hands were in his pockets as he listened to the sales rep, nodding along but clearly distracted by the sheer design of the vehicle. The man looked like a kid in a candy store, eyes darting over every surface, drinking in every technical spec flashing on the nearby display screen.

  I watched him for a second from a short distance away. He looked comfortable here. Curious. Open. His face lit up at some new feature the rep pointed out, something about adaptive terrain response and gravity-stabilized shocks.

  I walked up, slipping back into place next to him like I’d been there the whole time.

  He glanced over at me and raised a brow. “Thought you were coming here right after we split?”

  “I did,” I said with a small shrug. “Just stopped at the bathroom first.”

  Cooper nodded, casual. “Fair enough. You missed it though—they had this live demo just five minutes ago. Showed the off-road mode kicking in on simulated terrain. Whole thing shifted its chassis angle in real-time.”

  “Sounds cool,” I said, keeping my tone level. I didn’t need to elaborate. I had gone to the bathroom.

  The sales rep tried pulling me into the pitch, but I just nodded along, barely catching half the words. Cooper, though, was asking real questions—about energy cells, recharge rates, magnetic braking. He actually knew this stuff.

  I was only half-listening, letting his voice blur into the background. The warmth of the expo lights, the buzz of the crowd, the low hum of synth bass from one of the nearby booths—it all sort of blended together. My mind kept drifting. To April. To everything I wished I could wipe clean.

  But Cooper… he was just here, grounded. In the moment. Laughing a little as the rep made some joke about smart-AI nav systems being more polite than your average GPS.

  I envied him for that.

  “You good?” he asked me after a while, once the rep had moved on to a new group.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “Just… little tired.”

  He nodded again. Didn’t press. I appreciated that.

  We stood there together, two guys surrounded by machines worth more than our combined salaries, watching shiny demos and pretending the world wasn’t collapsing around at least one of us.

  And for a few minutes, I could almost forget.

  Almost.