"Does Warren know you're out here?"

"Fuck. Off."

"Then imagine me fucking off. You're the one that keeps bringing me back, Max. Can't exactly rest in peace when you insist on being haunted."

Behind your closed eyes you see Chloe lean against the porch railing. In the distance a car revs its engine and she cocks her head to listen. Moonlight and streetlight play across her blue hair and bare arms and bathe the skull on her top with silver, blue, and orange. It's beautiful and you wish she was real enough to take a picture of.

"That the only reason you wish I was real? Perv."

You can't even pretend to smile as you tease yourself with her ghost. So you change the subject.

"He's asleep."

"Good."

The car in the distance revs its engine again. A thudding bass beat gets louder as another car with no respect for the post-midnight hour drives nearby. Another minute and it's gone and the dangerous kind of silence that invites thinking and mental conversations with long-dead friends settles in. You don't want to break it, so you let Chloe do it for you. In your mind's eye you can see her turn and look at you.

"So… Kate took it pretty well." Mind-Chloe pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. You get a sudden urge to go to the freezer. But you don't. Instead, you nod silently.

"You knew she would. That's why you told her. That's why you don't want to tell Super Bitch."

"She's not-"

"Yeah, yeah. But that's what I'd call her and you've gotten good at imitating my voice." You can see the scentless spiral of smoke wafting up into the air. "Max, this shit is real fucked up and you know it. Gotta do something or you're going to go totally nuts."

"Because I'm only partially nuts now?" You ask, bitterness in your voice. It's why you dream up Chloe to talk to. Because she can tell you the truth about yourself that you're too afraid to. Fearless Chloe, ready to take on anything. Only…

"Oh no, you're nuts now. Who the hell uses their dead friends for therapy? Fuck, dude, you need a real shrink. First you need to throw those cigarettes out. Then you need a real shrink. And some self-respect. And, I dunno, maybe stop using me as an excuse to hate yourself? Sure, you let me die twice, but how many times did I shoot myself in that junkyard? How many times did I get hit by that train? I was a dead girl walking and you knew it. It was always going to end with me dead and there's nothing you could do to change that."

"You don't know that!" The words hiss out louder than you meant them to and you stop abruptly and listen to hear if anyone heard you. Nothing. "I could have chosen to save you. I could have let the town get wiped out. I could have… I could have figured out another way with enough time."

"Bullshit. What if you did save me? I'd've just gotten myself offed some other way by the end of the month. Face it, Max, you didn't get those powers to save me, you got them so you could spend a week with the friend you forgot and ease your own guilt over it. But you fucked that up too, didn't ya?"

"And how many of me did you kill in the process, huh, Max?" You hear your own voice in your head and in your mind you see a younger version of yourself where Chloe was. "How many versions of yourself did you screw over?"

You squeeze your eyes even more tightly shut and try to block out that accusing voice. You've had that conversation with Warren before. Was it all one timeline or did you keep making new ones with each jump? Is the timeline you live in now even the original one? Waren always said he thought it was just the one, but was he just being nice? Was he trying to make you feel better? Was he really your Warren or had you stolen another Max's entire life and called it your own?

"That's right, Max, just spiral down that rabbit hole. What's one more existential crisis this week? Just give it up already. I hate you and even I think this is pathetic. You can't even enjoy getting the life you wanted. No, you just have to keep crying over dear, sweet, dumb Chloe. What's next?"

Arms encircle you from behind and you don't get to hear yourself accuse you of what's deep down in your soul, below all of this. But you know it's there even as you startle and begin to struggle, only to relax when you realize it's Waren hugging you and saying something about how cold it is out. All you can hear is the unspoken echo of words unsaid: "You've ruined everything you've ever touched."

Turning in Warren's arms, you bury your face in his shoulder as the tears begin. You don't know what you're saying, you don't know what he's saying, you just know that this is the only place you've felt truly safe. No echoes of the dead. No accusations from yourself. Just warmth and comfort and love. The smell of him, the way his arms fit around you. The way he touches your hair and rocks softly as he holds you close. The way he worries about you.

It feels like it lasts a long time before you can hear a sigh hiss through his lungs and his lips brush against your hair. "Come back to bed. Torturing yourself isn't going to make tomorrow any easier."

"Today," you say, feeling like being pedantic to avoid the subject.

Another sigh, a squeeze of his arms, and a firmer, lingering kiss to the top of your head. "Alright, fine, today. You still need sleep. Send her to bed and then you come and do the same, okay?"

A third sigh. Longer this time. A scraping sound rather than a hissing one. You can feel his arms tense unconsciously and then force themselves to relax when he notices. His heart beats faster. You keep your eyes closed and hug him tighter, knowing what's coming, knowing he's right, and choosing to listen rather than fight or ignore him this time.

Warren breathes in, you hear him swallow, and then… a long exhale instead of words. You know he felt you brace. That he knows you know what he was going to say. That he doesn't want to start a fight at this hour.

"Say it. Please."

You can feel those words startle him. Feel him hug you tighter. Feel his lips in your hair move as he nods, lets out once last sharp, sighing exhale, and says it. "You need help dealing with all this, Max."

A pause, then more words come tumbling out of him in this space of safe permission. "I.. I wish I could help you like you need, but I can't. I'm a science guy, I'm a computer guy, I can't fix what needs fixed. And-and maybe you won't find the right person right away, but you will. You'll find someone who will listen and not lock you up for your story. Or if you want to call it a dream or whatever. But please, Max, please. I know how this time of year is, but it's worse this time. I can see it. Everyone can see it. Please…"

And he shuts up abruptly. Afraid he's rambling and going to set something off, probably. But you don't respond. Not right away. Not with words. You just hug him and work your face deeper into his shoulder like you're trying to melt into him where it's safe and where you can just be surrounded by his love.

You want to say it. You want to say what you know you have to say. What your mind's-eye Chloe and Max are waiting for you to say. What all those memories and made-up images are swirling around in your head like a hurricane are waiting for you to say. The inside and outside world pauses and holds its breath. Colors dance in front of your closed eyes from how tight you squeeze them shut and press into Warren.

Your next words will have consequences. They'll set you on a path just like every other words you've ever said, every other actions you've ever taken. These just feel different because of how long they've been waiting.

"Okay."

You feel Warren relax around you. You feel you relax around him. Tomorrow, no, today, this morning, maybe you'll feel the tension again and the fear of pitying eyes that can't understand. But right now, even as you wonder if you've made the right decision, even as doubt swirls anew and for a sliver of a moment you wonder if you could rewind and say something different, right now those words feel right. The world feels right. The two of you stand alone on the porch for what feels like a long time until you start to pull back and Warren lets you. Leaving you room to look up at his with tired, tear-stained eyes and an uncertain almost-smile.

The words dance on the tip of your tongue, but you don't say them. You don't need to. The quiet spell of nighttime suburbia lies like a heavy blanket across everything and you don't want that feeling to end. But Warren knows you, just like you know him, and words aren't needed. He nods. You nod. Silently you turn together and go back into the house.