"Meet me at the tree."

You sent me this last week. I was in shock when I saw it. You were still in Pentonville, I thought you were. Maybe you got a phone from your Uncle Victor and you used your "one text" on me instead of Laura. I could've sworn you weren't out yet, and I told myself that I wouldn't go. But I snuck out to see you anyway.

And true to your word, you were there.

I could still feel the bark against my hands as I climbed up to join you. And once I was there, I felt your hands on my cheeks and your hot breath on my lips. The gap between us was about to close.

And then I open my eyes.

This has been happening a lot recently, especially since your release from Pentonville is coming any day now. I thought "seeing" you in the hotel room would be the end of it, that it was just some random mental slipup. Maybe it was my mind giving me something to think about, since, in all honesty, I didn't want to go on that trip. Comic conventions really aren't my thing, and while it was…fun, something held me back from really enjoying it. It felt like I was carrying some kind of dead weight around whenever Rory and I walked the convention floor.

I thought that was it. I was wrong.

I have yet to tell Dr. Collins about this. It's not like he's unaware that my relationship with Rory is beginning to fall apart, and he knows that a "third person" is present in all of it. He doesn't know that this "person" is his own grandson, and I still don't have the courage to tell him so. He has his suspicions, and every time I bring it up, it looks like he wants to say your name. He never does, but he's thought about it, and every time I catch it, I lie.

I hate lying about you.

That's what it is - I'm lying. I'm lying to Dr. Collins, I'm lying to Rory, I'm even lying to myself. Just because I can admit in an email that I'm drawn to you, that I have feelings for you, it doesn't mean I want to fully accept it - so I lie. I lie to make myself feel better, but it's a comfort that fades away pretty fast, and all I'm left with are my thoughts of you.

Like I said, this has been happening a lot. The hotel room was the first, the "text message" was the most recent, but there's more in between.

A week ago, I found myself in The Chuck with you. You managed to get us in after pulling some strings, and we got to see this brand-new, exclusive exhibit on the presence of romance in newly-commissioned impressionism pieces. The work was done by some new, unknown artist: "Diacheiristís." You knew the name; you called them your "favorite up-and-comer." We got to view a number of paintings and sculptures, the detail and realism popping out in all of the images. The artist captured so much: dinner dates, cinema viewings, floral gifts. The modern methods of dating in everyday life. A number of warm colors made up each piece: a mix of reds and oranges and pinks all beautifully placed.

And then you showed me their headliner.

The browns and blacks expertly clashing with the violets and blues blew me away, and it took me some time to register that the incredible impressionistic painting this artist did was of me. It took me less time to figure out that "Diacheiristís" was a pseudonym you came up with to hide your work.

That exhibit was one of the best I've ever seen. When I woke up from my dream, the Molyneux book you gave me upside-down on my chest, I hated that it wasn't real.

The week before that, it was a car ride.

You were drunk, and I didn't know why. You definitely sounded that way on the phone, and while I wanted to ask why you didn't get a rideshare, I picked you up. I don't remember a lot of what you said during the ride, but you were definitely chatty (and a bit sad). I drove to the pier, trying to figure out how I'd get you on a boat to Spoon Island, and trying to figure out how I'd explain your condition to your father. The more you talked, the less I worried about it.

You went in so many different directions: your polarizing childhood, your favorite places in Port Charles, your happiest childhood memories. I don't remember the details, and even then, I'm willing to bet some of what you "said" was my mind filling in the gaps. Regardless, it all kind of drove me crazy.

And then you said my name.

I was ready to turn around, to meet your eyes and ignore the oncoming traffic. You said it with such a soft tone, one that would melt my heart in the real world the way it did in my mind. You lamented everything that happened with us: the standoffish behavior, the lying, the brutal words you struck me with in order to put on airs. Everything.

I opened my mouth to speak so many times, but you kept going. Everything that weighed you down and hurt you came out in a rush, and eventually, in the midst of another apology, you cried. I pulled over on the side of the road, putting my car in park, before moving to hold your hand. You leaned forward and bawled; I'm not sure how many times you said "I'm sorry," and I'm not sure that really matters.

When you looked up at me with your glowing, broken brown eyes, my heart skipped a beat. For a moment, I felt us growing closer, and when my eyes closed there, they opened in my bedroom.

All of these things never happened. I know they didn't, but that didn't stop them from feeling real. I wanted them to be real when I came out of them, and I want them to be real now. It's a kind of passion, a rush to get caught up in, that I want in my life, that I think I deserve. Two aesthetes running around a small town and finding love in the mundane? It writes itself.

But I laid there, alone, taking every single fantasy, every single moment in our "story," in.

In reality, with what you've said and done and where you are now, you should be the very last thing on my mind. You shouldn't even be a thought at all. But that's just another lie, and for once, the fact that I want you to make it all real is a truth I want to tell.