Cloud Chasers

seventeen | the persistence of memory [pt. one]

Joyce cringed and hit the headboard with her back. Peter Charming pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side.

Her favorite author was in her room. Sitting right there, on her bedside. With his trademark black hair and black t-shirt. Peter. Freaking. Charming.

Her heart was in her throat. Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

"Joyce?" he spoke, her heart thudded once more.

She glanced around the room, as if looking for answers. The faint sunlight, coming from a large window with shut blinds, along with the sound of pouring rain, barely reached the far corners of the room. She smelled old books; they were everywhere. Two bookshelves filled to the brim in the shadow of a big closet. A desk, with books scattered around on it. Two nightstands, with two books on each.

Peter reached for his glasses and put them on. Big, black glasses. His eyes squinted inside of them, gazing at her. "That's weird," he said and bumped his finger on the glasses.

Joyce swallowed time and time again, feeling overheated. "P-Peter Charming?" she said, her voice coming out dry.

He took off his glasses and frowned. "Have you been drinking, Joyce?"

She stared at him, lost herself in those mysterious brown eyes. Her heart slowed down, her body still warm.

Memories of watching his interviews at night, from the ones where he was her age to the more recent ones, graced her mind. How she felt close to him for what he said, how she related to his every thought.
All his books she'd read, from Dear Future to The Struggle of Being Charming, how she visited his worlds of words and escaped her troubles and anxieties. How he was her only friend, in a time when all her friends had left her alone.

With her mind dipped in warm memories, she jumped up and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his black t-shirt, surprised to find the smell she imagined him to have.

"Alright," his voice echoed from his chest. He only lifted one hand to pat her shoulder, not reciprocating her hug.

"Sorry," Joyce mumbled, letting go of him with her head down.

"Did you go in the Internet, last night?" he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

"You mean on the Internet," she said.

"No," he said, his upper lip curled. "I mean in the Internet. With the VR?"

She gazed away, letting the fake memories do their work. She remembered the peculiar aspect of this reality's Internet. It wasn't only accessible through electronic devices, but also physically, using a special VR that connected all five senses to the virtual world.

At first, this technology was expensive and not many people could afford it. But, a few years later, some billionaire bought it out and sold it cheaper than anyone imagined.

By that time, almost everyone had one in their home. Although, because of a number of issues related to it, namely human alienation and costly servers maintenance, they introduced a law by which the service was active only between ten p.m and one a.m., three hours every night.

"Uh, no," Joyce said, shaking her head back to the present, "I didn't go in the Internet, no."

Peter got to his feet and sighed. "Alright, would you like to tell me who or what in the hell you are?" he spat. "I will fight you, okay? I'll have you arrested. I don't care that you look like the love of my life, that's not going to stop me. What have you done with her?"

The love of my life, the words rang inside Joyce's mind and her stomach knotted. She stood up as well. "Peter, calm down," she said, her hands up.