He senses her before she speaks--it's the delicate weight of her footsteps as she moves around their apartment, the smell of her perfume as she gets ready for a gala, it's everything--and he turns around just in time for her flashlight to shine on him.
He doesn't wince. Hair in his face, damp from the on and off again New York rain, but he doesn't even put a hand in front of him to block the light. She's always been this bright to him, a beacon, a guide.
This has to be real. He needs it to be real.
"Please," he whispers, taking a step towards her. He's begging. "Please be real."
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He doesn't wince. Hair in his face, damp from the on and off again New York rain, but he doesn't even put a hand in front of him to block the light. She's always been this bright to him, a beacon, a guide.
This has to be real. He needs it to be real.
"Please," he whispers, taking a step towards her. He's begging. "Please be real."