Ariadne puts on one of her father's vinyls on her turntable and plays it while drinking a cup of Parisian tea. It had been at least a day and a half since she saw the team in the airport. She sighed in frustration at the thought of getting back on her feet academically since she had missed a whole week of lessons. She sits on her couch, laying her head on one of the armrests, sipping on her tea.
A week later she finds herself on her couch again, just after she finishes a sketch of one of the buildings she saw in LA. She wishes that the soft humming of Frank Sinatra would drown out the lingering thoughts about her first mission.
It's Louis Armstrong on now, and instead of tea in her hand, it's coffee. Her eye bags are starting to grow noticeable, and she doesn't finish her serving of salad. She blinks at the time - 3:20 am - and stands up to make the volume louder on her turntable. She closes her eyes and tries to block out thoughts, thoughts of them, and finishes her cup of coffee. She makes another one.
Edith Piaf echoes through her house, and she doesn't even wonder why the neighbors aren't complaining. She's seated on her couch, feet flat on the floor with her head in her hands and her elbows on her knees. She pulls on her face when she looks up, shaking her leg in anxiety.
She digs through her drawers, in search of a gold piece - her bishop - which she concluded was lost in her papers. She looks around her bedroom more, digging through every stack of papers and books. She swallows hard as she snaps her knuckles, eyes still surveying her room. Her eyes stop at a certain slightly reflective object on her bedside table. It glares at her menacingly without eyes, and she scrambles to get it. Her fists engulf the piece, feeling every dent and scratch of it, and its weight, but she isn't convinced.
She walks back to the living room. Still not content with the bishop in hand, she sits. She sets the bishop on the coffee table with a loud clack, a clack that reverberates despite the loud Edith Piaf, and puts her chin on her clasped hands. She thinks of everything else except the Edith Piaf that just slides through her ears.
She wakes up from her thoughts when a white ceiling greets her. Her body keeps her from getting up, so she shuffles to lie on her side. She hadn't had a meal for 36 hours, but she ignores the complaints of her stomach. Her eye bags grew, looking like they're going to devour her cheeks. She plays no music this time, because everything seems to be just the sound of the madness that's engulfing her.
Nothing is real anymore.
She tried to ignore the gnawing feeling when she got home right from the mission, but nothing seems to distract her anymore. She did great on her studies, better than how she did before the mission. Nothing ever brings her to contentment, though. Not even the many praises she received after she delivered her speech at their graduation seemed to please her. The blank looks she gave as people shook her hands gained attention, but soon people just concluded that it was from working too hard for her academics.
When she looks out her window, she manages to whisper a prayer.
"Tell me anything. Any lie will do. Just tell me anything."
At that moment, three concise knocks echo into her apartment from her front door. She doesn't get up because she decides it's just one of her annoying neighbors.
Knocks are heard again, but this time, it has a voice. "Ariadne? It's me."
She's unsure of whom it is, but she's too tired to care. She doesn't look through the peephole or unlocks the chains before she opens the door. Three neutral colors dominate her vision before she looks up to see the person's face.
"Ariadne," Arthur gapes at her appearance. She looked tired, thinner, and less of the Ariadne he's seen before he disappeared. She doesn't close the door on him. "Is this a bad time?" She closes the door, and Arthur turns away, but then he hears the scrambling of chains. The door opens.
She's walking to her couch when he enters and closes the door after him. "What's wrong?" His voice is stern but he still sounds concerned. She doesn't answer and just pours herself a cup of tea, not pouring one for him. He asks again, purely stern this time. "Ariadne, what's wrong?" He sees her swallow and shift her gaze from him to the coffee table. He turns to see the table. On it, a dusty bishop maintains its threatening stare.
"I don't know." She whispers barely, but it was enough for him to hear. His head snaps to hers while she maintains to keep her eyes on the center of the coffee table.
"I- I don't know anymore." She manages to tell him this, and tell herself this for the first time. Her eyes grow softer at this, losing the emptiness it had before.
He approaches her as his austere exterior starts to crumble and lifts his hand to her cheek, his hands shaking slightly. His soft hand feels cool on her cheek.
"Don't lose yourself."
"Then tell me what I need to know, Arthur. Please-"
"You're real, Ariadne. I'm real."
"How do you know that?"
"I just do."
She stares at him for a second. He pulls himself closer to her and pushes her head slightly up. He approaches her lips when she inhales sharply and turns away. He wrinkles his eyebrows as she walks to her bishop. She lifts it, rubbing the accumulated dust away. "This isn't anybody else's dream."
Arthur nods.
"This isn't my dream either, since I can't dream anymore." Arthur nods more slowly at this, slightly embarrassed for letting her lose her capability to dream naturally.
"So it's real." Her voice is calm and gentle, not anymore like how she was a few minutes ago. She had more room to breathe now. She had more room to breathe because of him.
She walks to her and she puts her lips on his, and she has goosebumps on the back of her neck while he pushes himself closer.
The kiss doesn't taste like it did when she last dreamt, and there she concludes that everything she is real.