ROGER (Read Until 7/31)

F I F T E E N

Dreams. The one place I saw all of him. Where I could feel him, touch him. No one could stop me and take away my chance to let him know that I understood and cared for him; that listening to his truths and seeing his tears made me realize one thing:

Those feelings I had towards a machine weren't for a machine at all.

I'd been lying if I said I wasn't thinking when I ran straight for Erica's medical closet, but I was. Days before, she had showed me the room and all its medicines; all kept in supply for a just in case.

A frantic girl trying to fall asleep to talk to her virtual friend was not a just in case. At least, not in Erica's book. In mine, it was.

The second I locked the closet 6 swallowed the pills I knew would put me to sleep. Yet, a fog clouded my mind as I wondered... what if it didn't work? What if the times I saw him in my dreams were only within his control? I'd just sleep, waste away the hours until preparation; I wouldn't get to say what I wanted to say.

Yet, that wasn't the case. The world was almost instant when I closed my eyes. My breath had begun with the scent of medical towels and syringes but easily slid into the smell of fresh air and cleanliness. When I opened my eyes again, I saw nothing but blinding white—and couldn't help but smile.

"Roger," I whispered his name quietly into the air as I stood and spun in a slow circle. He wasn't around, neither was his chair, but I wouldn't give up. I ran left, then right; I shouted his name until it echoed back in my direction. A part of me knew and had already accepted, that this attempt wouldn't work, but I just couldn't let go.

He was a person, he had a life. And damn it, if he didn't know I valued him more than I showed, I'd blame myself; never forgive myself.

Skidding to a halt, I teetered in my stance as I turned around again.

And there he was.

"Roger," I whispered at first, seeing him as he slowly turned to look at me, but I shook my head right after. I was wrong. "Damian Wallace," I said, correcting myself.

At first, he didn't move. He stood a few feet from me, hands in his pockets. There were wrinkles in his clothes and a stain on his pants; he seemed lost, confused. And when I'd said his real name, he winced and drew back an inch, as if he didn't want to hear it.

But I didn't want him to pull away. I wanted him to know that I accepted it, all of it. The Codes, the data—his true nature didn't matter. What mattered was that he existed. What mattered was he was alive.

"Damian, I—"

He didn't let me finish.

Before his name even left my lips, he ran to me. His shoes slid against the floor, black streaks left in their wake. He wrapped his arms tight around my shoulders and I did the same to his waist; his face pressed into my hair, and I couldn't help but take in the smell from his chest. Earthy, cool, like an early summer day.

"Why are you here?" he whispered against my scalp. "You shouldn't be here. Douglas. He's planning it all out. We need you out there. We need—"

"No." I shook my head so hard, the cotton of his shirt dug into my cheeks. My fingers pulled at his sleeves. "They don't need me. You do."

"Clara." He pulled back slightly and cupped my face. The light in his eyes dimmed as he tried not to smile, but I saw it; his cheeks raised, his lips twitched. I reached up to touch him. "You can't be here."

"But you always brought me here," I told him, staring intently into his eyes. "You opened this door for me."

"And I shouldn't have," his voice dropped down to a whisper. "It was wrong to bring you this far."