"Oh, guapo, you're up."

Beatriz steps into the room, scurrying to his bedside and taking a seat. She places the back of her hand against his forehead. His expression screams confusion.

Hers is sympathetic. "I worried."
"Why? What's wrong?" He tries to sit up, suddenly feeling a shot of pain rush through his body.
"Don't move, lie back." She guides him back on the pillows. "I came in and you were knocked out, bleedin’. I cleaned you up and put you in bed. I was gonna take you to the hospital, but you were semi-conscious, mumblin’ about somethin’ and I figured to wait till mornin’, let you sleep a little."

He nods carefully, his head throbs.

"I'll be right back." She rubs her hand across his forehead, followed by a kiss.

She leaves, relieved that he's awake. He lies still, trying not to think too much—it hurts when he does. But, he can't help remember what happened the night before.

He remembers coming into the house, beat after a long day. He tossed his stuff aside, but he had pictures—of this woman who's been the object of is fascination for some time now.

After much hesitation, he took the pictures out and examined the first one. It was strikingly odd. Odd enough to cause him to stumble and fall, blacking out afterwards.

But, what was it about the picture that caused him such shock?

He slowly creeps out of bed, his head feeling heavy. He's bandaged up pretty well; Beatriz is quite the nurse.

His feet hit the ground, his head slumping over as his arms rest on his knees. Beneath him, on the floor, he can see a mangled photograph. He slowly bends to pick it up. He studies it with difficulty, struggling with an emotion that can't particularly be identified.

He sets it on the bed, putting his hands to his face, breathing labouredly. He's hyperventilating.

He lies back onto the bed, staring up into the sky through the skylight. He tries to calm and quiet his breathing, closing his eyes, focusing.

The lady at hospital...

The guy at Starbucks...

It's not them, it's me...

Beatriz returns, carrying a tray with lunch and a glass of juice. She sits it on the nightstand, careful not to knock anything off. She notices Trent is staring straight up, eyes red and squinted, not blinking. She sits on the bed, next to him, touching his stomach.

"I made her up." He responds to her touch.
Beatriz tilts her head, eyebrows knit, confused. "She doesn't fucking exist."
"What are you talking about, Trent?"
"There is no girl that goes to Starbucks at eleven o'clock everyday. At least, not one that I've been stalking." He blinks, his eyes are moistening.
"I think we need a doctor..."
"No!,” She jumps from his sudden excitement. “Don't say that! You're trying to say that I'm crazy."
"No,” Her voice is small and concerned, her touch is warm and gentle, “I'm sayin’ that you're fuckin’ scarin’ me."
"Look in that drawer." Trent points to his nightstand

Beatriz opens the drawer and takes a look.

"Condoms?" She asks hesitantly, even more confused. "I don’t think we should, now's not the time for that."
"No, her scrunchie...I followed her to the hospital and she left her scrunchie. I went in the room and I took it."
"Her scrunchie?"
"Right, I asked the old lady in the room if she knew the girl and she didn't know what girl I was talking about. I thought she was senile or something, but she wasn't. Because there is no girl..." Trent explains, speaking as if the whole situation makes sense. "Maybe you should rest more, eat somethin’..."
"No!” He feels frustrated, “It made me see. I've imagined this girl. This girl that is everything anyone could wish for."

“Oh, Trent…it’s going to be ok.” Beatriz tries not to cry, she shouldn’t, she needs to be strong for him, but it upsets her, breaks her, he being so ill. Tears swell and overflow when she blinks, running rivulets down her face. She reaches out and wraps her arms around him.

Trent begins to speak but Beatriz interrupts, "Shhh, everything's going to be ok. Just rest."

Trent allows her to hug him, her head on his shoulder, her breath warm and gentle on his neck. He didn't mean to upset her, but can he be blamed at a time like this? He's sick and he needs help. She wants to help him. He's going to let her.

"I'm sorry, Bea."
"No. Shhh. Don’t be. I'll take care of you, I promise." She climbs into the bed, her arms still consoling him.

The love of his life was only in his imagination. But, is it the love or his life that's an imagination. He's losing his ability to separate what is real and what is a hallucination. He's ill.

He has calmed, centered, grounded himself, "Thank you." He says raspily.
"Just rest." She brings his head in, resting it against her chest.

She pulls the picture from beneath her and studies it. Only a background, buildings, signs. No subjects.

"Trent, what's this?" She asks.