The person I love is fictional.

It’s details ebb and flow between texts and worlds, sinking in the scars of the stories I put her through. It’s never one set face, but I can tell you the places were she’s wrinkled or scarred. I can detail the spots were the freckles sit on her face, or the mannerisms such as a nose scrunch or picking her fingers weave lines onto her body. She is shaped by the scenarios with only the vague colours of hair, skin and eyes that become the steady grouding of my imagination. She shifts when I’m lonely, becomes clearer when I’m daydreaming. She is shaped by the plot, softened by silences, rewritten with every draft. She is not a single frame in text but a world in my brain.