Sometimes I convince myself most of my memories are fake. I read once of people who were in their thirties who found out they were actually in their forties. I wonder if I have been lied to about my age. You might call me paranoid, but your memory doesn’t fully kick in until you’re about three, and even after that your thoughts still aren’t coherent. So it is very much possible to not know your own true age. Sometimes I speak to you just to say things out loud, and I think you realize because you won’t respond. Since we’ve moved into this house, I can’t tell if things have become more or less clear. I don’t know if I know what is going on any more than I did before I met you. Most of my life right now is spent in a comfortable confusion, with you as a lurking constant. I was told to pick up writing, so I’d be able to read over what I wrote and decide what’s real and what isn’t. I’d be able to find out what’s really going on. But the thing is, when I read over it, I’m not sure what happened in real life and what I made up. This is the story of us—you and me. We are unwell, and our fates are undecided. I found you on the side of the road however many years ago, and here we are. Between my hallucinations and yours, reality has become a joke, but we’ll laugh at it together.