He risked his life to save you.

Maybe. I can't remember, though. There's just a hole there. A hole in my brain, in my memory. Mine! I've never forgotten anything before! I've always had a photographic memory. But now there's . . . nothing. Just a vague impression of pain, suffering, tears, blood. And warm arms, gentle hands, and silver ringed green eyes staring into mine. I could loose myself in those eyes.

Could?

Fine! I lost myself to them a long time ago. My self. My soul. Everything. I don't even remember how it happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I never meant to fall in love.

How could you not? He's beautiful.

I've had more attractive lovers than him. More affectionate ones. More pleasant ones. Ones who may actually have felt something for me. This one's just handsome and proud and bad tempered.

So why have you turned your life around for this one? Why have you shared your secrets with him?

Because . . .

You love him. You don't want to live without him. You can't live without him. Neither can I.

Aren't you supposed to be an optimist? I've always thought - known - since I finished school that I'd never be able to love someone more than I loved travel, research, learning. I'd be married to my work. Good work. Useful work. Interesting work. Not something easy to believe when you've been surrounded since birth by happy, happy people, delighted to share their lives with each other. But of course, Kage was practical, right, irritating though he was. Who could ever love me like that?

He saved you . . .

Ayame knew it, too. He told me. Who could ever love such a mass of contradictions? Childishly sweet face, golden curls, inhuman violet eyes, perpetual optimism coupled with a fiery temper, a sharp tongue, a razor-like mind. He realized it before we were even out of first level! What else could I do but hide behind a mask? I'm a DyBane. Aren't we famous for the masks we wear?

Your Grandfather was able to show his true face to the person he loved.

I tried that! I've given him glimpses of the me behind the mask of silly, stupid, vapid cheeriness! It doesn't make a damn bit of difference!!

You never give him a chance to meet the adult you. Maybe he thinks you have multiple selves, the way your true self shines through in fast, random flashes.

Maybe I do . . . Great! Now I'm insane! Another barrier between me and him!

That's not true . . .

SHUT UP! He thinks I'm a fool! He thinks I'm a child! He thinks I'm an animal! He thinks I'm crazy! He thinks I'm a pervert!

No . . .

How can he not?! He's from a culture that condemns people like me! Gods, they don't even like interracial marriages!

Now you condemn and judge him. Hypocrite.

Fine! I'm not a pervert. I'm a friend. So much better!

You don't know that. He hasn't said any such things.

Yet. I've told him how I feel! I told him. I remember it. It's before the hole . . .

Idiot! How old is he? Sixteen? How can you expect a sixteen-year-old to recognize true love? He hasn't had a chance to live his life yet!

That's a load of crap!

If he thinks of you as a precious friend, it's a start.

It's not the start I want! What a worthless inner voice you are!

I snarl and shove myself up away from the desk. My legs won't support me. I collapse to my knees. The hard floor sends waves of agony through my body but it's nothing compared to the pain that's throbbing through my skull. My fingers spasm again, sliding on the sleek floor, and my chin hits the ground. I lie there, the wood cold on my body through the dressing gown that can't keep me warm. Sobs begin to wrack my body and I contract the muscles of my throat, choking myself. Anything to keep from making enough noise to bring him to this room.

Tears stream down my face, hot and salty. When my body stops trembling I let myself breath. My breath comes out in choking, uneven gasps, but at least it's silent. Blood comes out of my mouth as I cough, dribbling down my chin, mingling with the pool my tears have formed beneath my head.

I just lie on the floor. I don't know for how long. What difference does it make? The cold, hard floor or a warm, soft bed, that's cold as ice when I'm alone in it. I'm equally miserable no matter where I am. Besides, can I even make my legs work?

Eventually, I raise my head, slowly, shakily. I manage to get to my knees, my body swaying slightly. Blood and tears drip from my curls. I put up a still trembling hand to feel them. They're damp and sticky. I'll have to wash now. But not now. Later.

I force myself to my feet. My knees buckle and I bite back a scream of pain. I bite my lip as hard as I can. The blood flows freely from the wound, streaming from my lip down my chin, onto my chest. I ignore it and manage to get to my bed. Probably I'm staining the blankets, the pillows, I don't care. I only have to put up with this until he grows bored and goes back to his real life. His family. The people he loves.

I curl up slightly. My stomach's throbbing with pain. It twists, and I retch up more blood, right onto the bed. I must be sick. Strange. I'm usually so healthy. I should go home. I should go to Otousan. He'd be able to cure me, I'm sure. Of course he would. He's a genius. He can cure anyone of anything. But . . . I can't leave. If I leave, he'll be stuck here, isolated from his family. I can't abandon him here. So, I'll stay. I can live with the pain, even if it kills me. What do I have to live for anyway?

I could ask him. But I haven't. Not since my thoughts came back to me. I haven't dared. I'm just a coward. I don't have to ask to know what he'll say. That he can't love me like that. He can never love me like that. He cares about me. I'm his best friend. But he doesn't feel that way and will never feel that way. Not about me. Perhaps he'll tell me he's fallen in love with someone his society would approve of. Someone brilliant. Beautiful. Wonderful. He doesn't mean to hurt me. Perhaps there will even be sorrow in his eyes when he does.

I put a hand over my stomach. It's not trembling anymore. What's wrong with me? I've had lovers leave me before I had a chance to leave them before. This one isn't even my lover! Yet he's kindled all sorts of things in my mind that I've never thought of before. Since when do I want a husband? Since when do I care if I have someone to spend time with who shares my passions, my love of everything unknown, of poetry, of the stage, of technology, of fencing, of far off worlds? I've never wanted to be married, to settle down on one world. Perhaps for a time, certainly, but I always thought of it as being alone. Just for the time it would take me to write my book. But now when I think of it, I dream of being there with him. With him and children! It's not that I don't like children, I love them, but I've never wanted to have my own. Why does he make me think of all these things that I can never even have with him? Never mention to him.

I shut my eyes. The light hurts them so much. It's unbearable. My hand twitches and moves to pull the blankets around me, then falls down. I don't care about being warm. There's no point. A just need to be alive long enough to take him where he wants to go when he's done being the adored famous actor. I should magic the mess I've made away. I can't let him find out how sick I am. But . . . I'm too tired. I'll do it after I sleep. I'll do it when I wake up. I won't let anything spoil his happy, ideal life here. Not even me. And when he's done . . . nothing else will matter.