#false reality

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The sunlight was heavy and gold, pooling across the duvet like warm honey. Whumpee shifted, sighing into the softest pillow they’d ever known. Beside them, caretaker stirred, a low chuckle vibrating against Whumpee’s shoulder.

"Five more minutes?" Partner murmured, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss to Whumpee’s temple.

"The garden needs weeding," Whumpee teased, though they tightened their grip on Partner’s waist.

"The garden can wait for the sun to get higher. I’m going to make that French toast you like." Partner squeezed their hand, a solid, grounding weight, and slid out of bed. "Stay. Be lazy. You’ve earned it."

Whumpee watched them walk out, the floorboards creaking with a comforting, familiar rhythm. They felt full. For the first time in months, the phantom aches in their joints were gone. The nightmares had stopped. They were safe.

After a few minutes of listening to the distant, muffled clatter of plates, Whumpee stretched and followed the scent of imaginary cinnamon.

The kitchen was empty.

The stove was cold. A single plate sat on the counter, but it was bone-dry. The clock on the wall was stuck at 3:30, still it ticked rhythmically on time.

"Love?" Whumpee called out, a tiny, cold needle of anxiety pricking at the back of their neck. "Did you go outside?"

They headed for the French doors leading to the patio. The morning light coming through the glass was blinding, too bright, almost white. Whumpee pushed the doors open, expecting the smell of jasmine and the sound of birds.

There was nothing.

The patio stones extended for three feet and then simply stopped. Beyond the edge of the porch, there was no garden. There was no sky. There was only a vast, oily blackness that seemed to swallow the very light hitting it.

Whumpee spun around. The kitchen was already beginning to blur, the edges of the table softening like melting wax.

"No," Whumpee whispered, clutching the doorframe. Their fingers didn't feel the wood; they felt cold metal. "No, please. I was just—we were just talking."

"You always did have a vivid imagination," a voice echoed, vibrating not from the room, but from inside Whumpee's own skull. "But the processor is overheating. We need to cycle you out."

The transition wasn't a fade; it was a snap.

The smell of cinnamon was replaced by the stench of ozone and antiseptic. The warmth of the sun vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a damp cellar. Whumpee gasped, their lungs burning as they tried to draw in air that wasn't filtered through a machine.

They weren't in a bed. They were suspended in a harness, wires snaking from the base of their skull into a humming console.

Assistant leaned over them, wiping a smudge of grease off a glass monitor. "How was the French toast?" she smiled, her voice soft.

Whumpee’s hands shook, they tugged weakly at their restraints, trying to reach out for a partner who was now just a collection of data points. "Put me back," they croaked, the salt of real tears stinging eyes that hadn't blinked in hours. "Please. Just... let me go back to the garden with them."

Whumper just smiled, clicking a button on the console. "Maybe tomorrow. If you're good. For now, let’s talk about reality."

Whumper and the assistant chatted amongst themselves, rattling off numbers and terms Whumpee didn't understand.

"How long was that?" Whumpee interrupted, their voice cracking.

"Notice any abnormalities? Any glitches?" the assistant countered. She was already scribbling on a notepad, the fuzzy pink pompom atop her pen bobbing frantically—the only pop of color in the gray steel lab.

"How long?" Whumpee pressed, louder this time.

feeling a little bit safe

in the moment

with one person

with yourself, even

and you question it

is this real

or just something

that feels like it