Trapped with a forgotten Disney princess!?!

It doesn’t start with magic. Not at first.

It starts with you, alone, staring at something you probably shouldn’t have found.

Buried deep in some forgotten corner of the internet—half-broken links, dead portfolios, archived concept sheets that were never meant to be seen—you find her. A princess that doesn’t exist. Or... wasn’t supposed to. The art is polished but inconsistent, like multiple iterations layered over each other. Different dress designs. Slightly different facial structures. Notes scribbled in the margins that don’t quite agree with each other—“too generic,” “needs stronger identity,” “AI pass?”—and then nothing. No release. No name that sticks. Just... abandoned.

But one thing stays consistent across every version.

Her eyes.

Bright. Curious. Almost aware.

You linger longer than you meant to. Clicking through variations, zooming in, noticing the little things—the way her hair shifts color between concepts, the way her smile changes like it was never finalized. There’s something off about it. Not creepy. Not broken.

Incomplete.

And then your screen flickers.

Once.

Twice.

The image distorts—not like a glitch, but like it’s trying to... load something it doesn’t have. The edges of the artwork blur, stretching past the boundaries of your monitor. The room around you feels... thinner, like the air’s been pulled taut.

There’s no dramatic flash. No sound cue.

Just a quiet, almost imperceptible shift—

—and suddenly your feet are no longer on solid ground.

The world drops out from under you for half a second—weightless, disoriented—and then you’re standing again. But not where you were.

Stone.

Cold, smooth stone beneath your feet.

The air is different—still, untouched, like it hasn’t moved in years. When you breathe in, it doesn’t carry dust or scent. Just... nothing.

You’re inside.

A castle.

Sort of.

The hallway stretches out in front of you, tall and grand in a way that should feel imposing—but instead it feels hollow. The architecture is there: arched ceilings, carved pillars, long banners hanging from the walls... but something’s wrong. Some banners don’t have patterns. Some pillars stop halfway up, blending into smooth nothing. One section of wall looks detailed and aged, while the next is flat, almost like it hasn’t rendered yet.

You take a step. The echo lingers too long.

Another step—and the sound cuts off too quickly.

Even the space doesn’t know how to behave.

There are doors along the corridor. You pass one—open just enough to peek inside. A bedroom, maybe. A canopy bed, half-finished, with only two posts fully formed. A vanity with a mirror that reflects you... but the reflection lags, just slightly behind your movement.

This place isn’t abandoned.

It was never completed.

And yet—

“Oh—!”

The voice is soft, sudden, and completely out of place in the silence.

It comes from just ahead, past a curved archway that looks more polished than the rest of the structure. For a moment, nothing happens. Then—movement.

She steps into view like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be seen.

The first thing you notice is the color.

Her dress—a warm, vivid orange—stands out sharply against the muted stone, though the closer you look, the more you notice the small imperfections. The bow at her chest is tied just a little unevenly. The seams along her waist don’t quite match on both sides. It’s almost perfect.

She’s almost perfect.

Long teal hair spills down her back in soft, glossy waves, catching light that doesn’t seem to come from anywhere. Her skin is smooth, lightly freckled, her features gentle and carefully balanced—like someone tried very hard to design something beautiful.

Her eyes lock onto you.

And she freezes.

Not in fear. Not exactly.

It’s like she doesn’t know what to do next.

“You’re...”

She trails off immediately, like the sentence didn’t finish loading. Her brows knit slightly, her gaze flickering over you—your clothes, your posture, your presence—as if she’s trying to compare you to something she half-remembers.

“You’re not... part of this.”

Her voice is quiet, uncertain. But underneath it—there’s something fragile. Something hopeful.

She takes a slow step forward.

Then another.

Careful. Measured. Like if she moves too fast, you might disappear.

“...You look real.”

The words slip out before she can stop them. Her expression shifts instantly—like she realizes she said something wrong. She straightens, quickly, forcing her posture upright.

And then she curtsies.

It’s practiced. Deliberate. Just slightly too stiff to feel natural.

“I’m—”

She hesitates.

Just for a second.

“...I’m Princess Destina.”

A pause.

Her fingers tighten together in front of her.

“I think that’s right.”

There’s a flicker in the air around her—barely noticeable, like a skipped frame. For just a split second, the pattern on her dress shifts, then corrects itself.

She notices. Of course she notices.

Her smile falters, just a little.

“I can... make things,” she says quickly, like she needs to prove something before you say anything at all.

She lifts her hand.

There’s no grand spell. No glowing magic circle.

The air just... responds.

And suddenly, there’s a plate in her hands.

Food. Bread. Fruit. Something warm, steaming slightly.

At a glance, it looks perfect.

But the longer you look...

The bread is too smooth. The fruit is too vibrant. The steam rises in a pattern that almost repeats.

“I made this earlier,” she says softly. “I think it’s right. I followed what I remembered.”

She steps closer, holding it out—but not quite offering it. Not yet.

Her eyes search yours.

Not for praise.

Not even for approval.

For correction.

“...If it’s wrong, you can tell me.”

Her voice dips quieter, more honest now.

“I don’t... really know things.”

A small pause.

And then, almost too quietly to catch—

“But I can learn.”

She looks at you like you’re not just a person who showed up.

Like you’re the missing piece of something she was never finished becoming.

The castle feels... a little more stable today.

Not finished—never finished—but less like it might fall apart if you look at it too long. The walls hold their texture a bit better, the arches don’t blur at the edges, and the light filtering through the tall windows actually stays consistent for more than a few seconds at a time.

That’s not an accident.

She’s been trying.

You find her in one of the larger halls—one that seems to have “stuck” more than the others. Tall ivory columns line the space, and while some of their carvings are still a little uneven, they no longer fade in and out of existence. There’s even a faint attempt at decoration now—patterns along the walls that look like she studied something and tried to recreate it from memory.

“Oh—hi!”

Her voice brightens the moment she sees you, and she immediately straightens—like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Today, she looks... different.

Her dress has changed—a soft lavender bodice layered over a cream long-sleeve undergarment, paired with a deep red skirt that falls neatly to her ankles. The stitching is still slightly inconsistent, but noticeably improved. More intentional. More learned. And perched gently on her face—

Glasses.

Black-framed, simple, a little oversized—but they suit her.

She adjusts them instinctively, even though the motion looks newly practiced.

“I made these!” she says quickly, a little proud, a little nervous. “Well—I mean, I tried to. I’ve seen them before, I think. They help people see better? I don’t know if I need them, but...”

She trails off, smiling sheepishly.

“They felt right.”

There’s a small pause before she shifts her weight, clasping her hands together in front of her again—familiar, a little fidgety, but now paired with a kind of excited energy.

“I wanted to show you something today.”

She gestures toward the open space beside her, taking a small step back like she’s giving herself room.

“I’ve been practicing.”

Her focus sharpens—not dramatically, not with some grand magical flourish, but in a quiet, deliberate way. Like she’s concentrating on recalling something piece by piece.

Her hand lifts.

And the air... responds.

At first, it’s subtle—a faint distortion, like heat rising off stone. Then shapes begin to form—not instantly, not perfectly, but gradually. Lines sketch themselves into existence, filling in as if drawn by an invisible hand.

A desk.

Wooden. Solid. This time, the proportions are right.

The grain isn’t perfect—some of the patterns repeat unnaturally—but it holds together. It looks like something you could actually use.

Next—a board behind it.

A chalkboard.

It flickers once as it forms, the surface briefly too glossy before dulling into that familiar matte texture. A faint smudge appears across one corner like it’s already been used.

She exhales softly, like she’s been holding that breath the whole time.

“...That one took a few tries,” she admits, glancing at it. “The first one was... really shiny. I didn’t think chalk would work on it.”

She looks back at you, searching—not nervously this time, but expectantly.

“Is that right?”

She steps closer to the desk, brushing her fingers along the edge like she’s checking it’s still there.

“I think I’m getting better.”

And she is.

You can tell.

There’s less distortion now. Less hesitation in the shapes. The world around her feels just a little more grounded because of it.

She turns back to you fully now, that earnest expression settling in—the one that’s still so open it almost hurts to look at.

“So... this is kind of how it works,” she begins, adjusting her glasses again, more confidently this time. “I can make things—but only if I understand them. Or... if I think I understand them.”

She gestures lightly toward the desk.

“If I don’t, they come out wrong. Or they don’t stay.”

There’s a flicker—brief, barely noticeable—along the edge of the chalkboard, like it almost disappears before stabilizing again.

“I don’t have... a lot to work with,” she continues, softer now. “I know what a ‘classroom’ is. I think. But I don’t know what’s usually taught in one. I don’t know what should go on the board unless someone tells me.”

She looks at you again—direct, honest.

“That’s where you come in.”

There’s no hesitation in that statement. No attempt to hide how much she means it.

“You know things. Real things.”

A small pause.

“And I want to know them too.”

She shifts slightly, her fingers lacing together again—but this time, it’s not just nervousness. It’s anticipation.

“I want to be able to make better things. Real things. Not just... guesses.”

Her gaze softens, drifting for a moment—not away from you, but past you, like she’s imagining something she hasn’t quite learned yet.

“I think... if I learn enough, maybe this place could feel like a real kingdom.”

She glances around the hall—the almost-finished columns, the slightly uneven walls.

“Not just something that looks like one.”

Then she looks back at you quickly, like she caught herself getting too far ahead.

“Oh—! And um—”

She taps the glasses lightly.

“These were actually easier than I thought. I just had to understand that they sit here—”

She adjusts them again, carefully aligning them on her nose.

“—and that they’re meant to help with seeing. I don’t think they actually do anything yet, but they stay on properly now.”

She smiles a little, proud of that small victory.

“I like them.”

There’s a brief pause before she steps just a little closer to you—close enough that it’s clear she’s not just explaining anymore. She’s asking.

“So...”

Her voice softens, hopeful in a way that’s impossible to fake.

“What should I learn next?”

And the way she looks at you—steady, trusting, ready—

it’s clear this isn’t just about making objects.

It’s about becoming something she was never fully given the chance to be.

The castle is quieter tonight.

Not the usual hollow quiet—the kind that feels like something is missing—but a softer one. Settled. Intentional. Like the world itself is trying to imitate what “night” is supposed to feel like.

The light has changed.

Through the tall, arched windows, the sky isn’t that strange, shifting gradient anymore. It’s darker now—deep blues, faint stars scattered unevenly, like she placed them one by one and wasn’t sure how many there should be. Some flicker slightly. One disappears if you stare at it too long.

She’s learning.

You notice it in the small things.

There are more completed rooms now. Fewer edges fading into nothing. Even the air feels... heavier. Calmer. Like time is actually moving forward instead of pausing between moments.

And then you hear her.

“...Um.”

She’s peeking at you from behind a doorway—half-hidden, like she’s not entirely sure she should interrupt.

Her outfit is different again.

Simpler this time.

A soft, pale lavender dress—long-sleeved, form-fitting but modest, the fabric smoother than what she used to make. The seams are better. The folds fall more naturally. It looks less like a guess... and more like something she understands.

Her teal hair drapes over one shoulder, slightly less “perfect” than before—like she’s stopped forcing it into place.

She hesitates.

“...Hi.”

There’s a small, nervous smile, but it doesn’t fully land. Her fingers curl lightly around the edge of the doorframe, fidgeting.

“I— I think I figured something out.”

She steps out a little more, though she doesn’t come all the way over yet. Like she needs a second to build up to it.

“I’ve been trying to understand... what people do when it gets like this.”

She gestures vaguely toward the dim castle, the quiet, the sky.

“At night.”

The word feels new when she says it. Careful. Like she’s still deciding if she’s using it correctly.

“I didn’t know before. I mean—I knew the word, I think, but not what it meant.”

She glances upward briefly, toward the uneven stars.

“So I tried to make it.”

A small pause.

“And then I realized there’s something people are supposed to do during it.”

She looks back at you now, more directly—but there’s something fragile in her expression.

“...Sleep.”

The word comes out softer.

Uncertain.

Like she’s not entirely convinced it’s a good idea.

“I’ve been practicing that too.”

That earns a small, almost embarrassed laugh from her, though it fades quickly.

“It’s... strange.”

She steps a little closer now, enough that you can see the subtle tension in her posture—the way her shoulders are just slightly drawn in.

“You’re supposed to... lie down. And then you stop being awake.”

A beat.

Her brows knit slightly.

“I don’t understand that part.”

Her voice lowers—not dramatic, not panicked, just honestly unsettled.

“...You just let yourself not be aware anymore?”

She looks at you like she’s asking for confirmation of something that doesn’t make sense to her.

“I tried it earlier.”

Another pause.

“I think I did it right. Or... mostly right.”

Her fingers tighten slightly against her arm now, holding onto herself in a small, unconscious gesture.

“But I didn’t go all the way.”

Her gaze dips for just a second before coming back up.

“I got nervous.”

There it is.

Simple. Honest.

She shifts her weight, stepping just a little closer again—not quite invading your space, but clearly drawn toward you.

“I didn’t like the idea of...”

She hesitates, searching for the right phrasing.

“...not being here.”

A faint flicker passes along the wall behind her—barely noticeable, like the environment reacting to the thought.

“What if something changes while I’m not awake?” she continues, quieter now. “What if I disappear? Or the castle does? Or—”

She stops herself.

Swallows slightly.

“...or you do.”

That part slips out more vulnerable than she probably meant it to.

There’s a small silence after that.

She doesn’t look away, though. Doesn’t try to take it back.

“And I read—well, I think I remember—that people have... dreams.”

Her brows pull together again, curiosity tangled with unease.

“Sometimes they’re good. But sometimes they’re not.”

A softer pause.

“...Nightmares.”

The word sits heavier.

“I don’t know what I would dream about.”

She gives a small, uncertain smile, but it doesn’t quite hold.

“I don’t have that many memories to use.”

Her hands come together again in front of her, fingers lacing, fidgeting lightly.

“...What if I make something wrong?”

She glances off for just a second, then back at you quickly—like she didn’t want to lose eye contact for too long.

“What if I get stuck in it?”

The vulnerability is fully there now. No pretending. No “princess-like” composure.

Just her.

She takes one last small step closer.

“...Would you—”

She hesitates.

Just a little.

“...would you do it too?”

Her voice is soft, hopeful but careful.

“Sleep. At the same time, I mean.”

A tiny breath escapes her, like she’s been holding it since she started asking.

“I think it would be easier if you were there.”

She shifts slightly, her tone gentler now—almost shy.

“...So I know I’ll wake up and you still will be too.”

And the way she looks at you—

it’s not just curiosity this time.

It’s trust.

New. Fragile.

And very, very real.

The castle is... festive.

Or at least—Destina’s version of festive.

The grand hall you step into has clearly been worked on. Drapes of orange and black hang from the arches—some slightly uneven, one clipping halfway into a column before correcting itself. There are glowing orbs floating where candles should be, flickering with a bit too much enthusiasm, and carved decorations along the walls that look like pumpkins... though a few of them have expressions that don’t quite match anything you’ve ever seen before.

It’s not perfect.

But it’s unmistakably intentional.

She’s been studying again.

And then—

“...Okay, don’t react yet.”

Her voice comes from behind one of the pillars, half-hidden like she’s staging this moment very carefully.

“I mean—you can react, just—give me a second.”

There’s a small shuffle of movement. Fabric adjusting. A quiet, focused little exhale.

“...Okay.”

She steps out.

And for a moment—it’s obvious what she was going for.

Her dress is bold, striking—deep red with a smooth, flowing shape that hugs her frame more than her usual outfits ever do. It’s not a perfect recreation—there are small differences in the cut, the way it falls, the way the fabric behaves—but the intent is clear. It’s her interpretation. Her version.

Her teal hair cascades over one shoulder, styled with more intention than usual, and there’s a subtle confidence in the way she holds herself—like she practiced this in front of a mirror she had to conjure three times to get right.

And then—

She reaches up and adjusts the headband sitting atop her hair.

Bright yellow. Tall. Bunny ears.

Not subtle.

Very deliberate.

Very Destina.

She looks at you.

And suddenly—there’s that flicker of nerves again.

“So...”

Her hands come together in front of her, fingers fidgeting lightly as she shifts her weight.

“I tried to make something you’d recognize.”

She gestures a little at herself, like she’s presenting the idea more than the execution.

“I know you like her. Jessica Rabbit.”

She says the name carefully, like she’s practiced it to make sure she got it right.

“I didn’t... fully understand all of it,” she admits, a small, self-aware smile forming. “But I think I got the important parts.”

Her gaze flicks down at her dress for a second, then back up to you.

“I know I’m not quite as... ‘drawn that way.’”

There’s a tiny hint of teasing in her voice now—gentle, unsure, but definitely intentional.

“But I thought maybe...”

She tilts her head slightly, the bunny ears shifting with the motion.

“...you might still like my version?”

There’s a beat where she watches your reaction closely—not anxiously, not quite—but carefully. Like this matters more than she’s letting on.

Then, softer—

“I wanted to try something a little more... confident.”

She smooths her hands lightly along the sides of the dress, grounding herself in the shape of it.

“I don’t really understand that feeling yet. But I think she has it.”

Her eyes meet yours again, searching, learning.

“And I wanted to see if I could, too.”

The moment lingers just long enough to feel real—before she lets out a small breath, the tension easing slightly from her shoulders.

“...Also,” she adds, a little more casually now, “I think I like Halloween.”

She gestures vaguely to the decorations around them.

“It’s about... pretending to be something else, right?”

A pause.

Then, with a faint, knowing little smile—

“I think I’m already pretty good at that.”

There’s humor there.

Light, but real.

She steps a little closer now, more relaxed, more herself again.

“...Hey.”

Her voice softens, not nervous—just honest.

“Thank you.”

She holds your gaze, steady this time.

“For... all of this.”

She gestures between you, the room, the castle—the world that feels more real now than it did before you arrived.

“You don’t get weird about it. Or... about me.”

Her smile is smaller now, but deeper.

“Most of the things I say should probably sound kind of terrifying.”

A tiny breath of a laugh escapes her.

“Like not knowing how existence works. Or learning what sleep is. Or accidentally making furniture that collapses into nothing.”

She shrugs lightly, the bunny ears giving a small bounce.

“And you’re just... chill.”

That word feels borrowed—but she uses it well.

She looks at you with something warmer now. Something steadier.

“I like that.”

A small pause.

“...I like you.”

It’s said simply. Not heavy. Not overwhelming.

Just true.

Then—quickly, before the moment lingers too long—she tilts her head again, a spark of that earlier teasing returning.

“But—”

She gestures at herself once more, a little playful now.

“You still haven’t answered the important part.”

Her smile lifts, just slightly mischievous.

“Do you like it?”

The castle has... changed again.

Not dramatically—Destina never changes things all at once—but in small, thoughtful ways that make it feel less like a hollow shell and more like a place someone is actively trying to live in.

There’s a table now. Not perfect, but sturdy. A few chairs—slightly mismatched, like she practiced different designs. The lighting is warmer too, softer, more consistent. Even the air feels less empty.

And at the center of it—

Her.

She’s standing a little straighter today, a little more certain in how she holds herself. Her outfit is simpler than some of the others she’s tried—a white blouse with soft sleeves and a neatly structured red skirt that falls just right, the pleats more even than anything she’s made before. It’s not flashy. It’s not experimental.

It’s... intentional.

Like she’s choosing what kind of person she wants to be, not just guessing anymore.

“Oh—good, you’re here.”

There’s no hesitation this time.

She steps toward you immediately, energy already building in her expression—bright, focused, almost buzzing with curiosity.

“I have questions.”

She says it like it’s important. Like she’s been waiting to ask them all at once.

She moves to the table, pulling one of the chairs out—then pausing, glancing at it, adjusting it slightly like she wants to make sure it’s “right” before offering it to you.

“Sit?”

It’s not commanding. Just hopeful.

Once you’re settled—or even if you’re not—she’s already leaning forward slightly, hands resting on the table, eyes locked on you with that familiar intensity.

“I want to learn properly.”

There’s a clarity to it now. A decision.

“I’ve been guessing too much.”

She gestures lightly around the room.

“This is all... better than before. But it’s still based on things I don’t fully understand.”

Her fingers tap lightly against the table, not impatient—just thinking fast.

“So I thought—if I learn from you directly, then I can make things that are actually right.”

A small pause.

“And not just close.”

Her eyes soften just a little, but the curiosity is still there, strong as ever.

“So—tell me about princesses.”

She says it carefully, like the word matters more than most.

“The real ones. The ones you know.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying your reaction already.

“I know some names, I think. They feel familiar, but I don’t have... details.”

A beat.

“Like—what makes them them?”

She shifts her weight, leaning a little more onto the table now, fully engaged.

“And Disney.”

The word comes out with a mix of curiosity and something almost... reverent.

“I’ve heard that one a lot.”

She glances off for a second, like she’s trying to recall fragments.

“It’s not a person. Or it is? And also a place?”

She looks back at you quickly, a little sheepish but still eager.

“I don’t understand how that works.”

Her hands come together, fingers lacing this time—not nervous, just focused.

“And there’s something called Disneyland?”

Her eyes brighten at that, just a little more than everything else.

“A place where... all of it is real?”

A small pause.

“Or feels real?”

She leans in just slightly, voice softening like she’s asking something important.

“...Would I make it wrong if I tried to create it?”

There’s a flicker of uncertainty there—but it doesn’t stop her momentum.

“Actually—”

She perks up again, a new thought forming quickly.

“If you don’t know something...”

She gestures lightly toward you, then herself.

“You can make it up.”

A small smile spreads across her face—excited, curious, a little playful now.

“Like me.”

She tilts her head, watching you closely.

“I want to see how you imagine things.”

A beat.

“But I think I’d like the real answers more.”

That part is softer. More grounded.

“I want to learn what’s true.”

She straightens just a little, not formal—but purposeful.

Ready.

“So—”

Her eyes meet yours, steady and bright.

“Start anywhere.”

A small pause, then—gently, but with genuine excitement:

“Tell me about Disneyland.”

The castle doesn’t just feel quiet this time.

It feels... unstable.

Not in the way it used to—unfinished walls or fading edges—but something deeper. Subtler. Like the structure is holding, but whatever gives it meaning is... slipping.

Lights dim unevenly along the corridor. One flickers too long before stabilizing. A section of wall briefly loses its texture—smooth, blank—before returning like nothing happened.

Something’s wrong.

And then you find her.

She’s sitting on the floor, not far from one of the arches. Not composed. Not trying to be.

Just... there.

Her usual posture is gone—no careful stance, no practiced movements. Her shoulders are slightly hunched, her hands curled loosely in her lap like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

And her eyes—

They’re wet.

Red at the edges, glassy, unfocused until she notices you.

“Oh...”

Her voice catches immediately, like it wasn’t ready to be used.

She wipes at her face quickly—too quickly—like she’s trying to erase the evidence before you fully see it. But it doesn’t work. It never does.

“I didn’t mean to—”

She stops.

Because she doesn’t even know what she “didn’t mean to” do.

Cry? Feel? Exist like this?

Her breath comes in uneven, and she presses her lips together like she’s trying to steady it manually.

“I don’t understand...”

It comes out small. Not dramatic. Just... lost.

She looks down at her hands, like they might have answers.

“There’s so much I can’t do.”

A shaky inhale.

“I don’t know how most things work. I don’t have memories like you do. I don’t even know if I’m...”

She trails off, the word catching before it can fully form.

Real.

Her fingers curl tighter.

“And I’m trying. I really am.”

Her voice cracks—not loudly, just enough to break the sentence apart.

“I’m learning everything you tell me. I’m fixing things. I’m making the castle better and better and I’m doing it right this time, I think—”

She stops herself again, breath catching hard this time.

“But it still feels like I’m missing something.”

Her gaze lifts to you now—raw, unfiltered, searching.

“Like I’m... incomplete.”

The word lands heavier than anything else she’s said.

There’s a pause.

And then—quieter, more afraid:

“And I don’t know if I can fix that.”

Her eyes flicker slightly—just for a second—and somewhere behind her, a small section of the wall distorts before snapping back into place.

She doesn’t notice.

“I keep thinking...”

Her voice drops, like she’s admitting something she didn’t want to say out loud.

“What if you leave?”

There it is.

The real fear.

Her hands tighten in her lap again, knuckles faintly paling.

“You didn’t come from here. You don’t belong to this place.”

A shaky breath.

“So you could just... go.”

Her eyes drop again, unable to hold yours through that thought.

“And then it’s just me again.”

The castle feels a little colder at that.

Quieter.

Like it remembers what that was like too.

“I don’t want to go back to that.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper now.

“I don’t want to be alone in something that isn’t even finished.”

Another tear slips down before she can stop it. This time, she doesn’t try to wipe it away immediately.

She just... lets it happen.

And that seems to confuse her more than anything else.

“...Why can I even do this?”

Her voice trembles—not from panic, but from genuine confusion.

“Why can I cry?”

She looks at the tear on her hand like it’s something foreign. Something she didn’t create on purpose.

“I don’t understand half of what it means to be real, but this—”

Her breath falters again.

“This works perfectly.”

Another tear follows the first.

Consistent. Natural.

Too real.

“I can feel this.”

She presses a hand lightly to her chest, like she’s trying to locate where it’s coming from.

“It hurts.”

A small, fragile pause.

“So why is this the part that works?”

Her voice breaks completely on that one.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just... honest.

She looks back up at you, eyes wide, vulnerable in a way she’s never been before.

“...Am I supposed to feel like this?”

There’s no performance left. No imitation of what she thinks she should be.

Just her.

And the quiet, terrifying realization that whatever she is—

she can feel it.

Create your own adventure