Dear M——,

Last night I had that dream again. We’re standing on shore when a great wave rises; I grab your arm to flee, but you’re frozen, transfixed. I can only watch from a distance as it swallows you whole.

When I woke, you slept peacefully beside me, your face obscured by the Zome. Translucent material stretched across your eyes; wires vanished into your ears.

You say the Zome brings you closer to reality, but you and I walk the same hallways and see nothing alike. You talk to me in your voice, but I don’t know who formed the words. Nothing I say reaches you unmediated. The Zome filters all.

No longer. I’m writing this letter in the shape of goodbye. When I’m done, I’ll tear it up, sprinkle the bits into oatmeal. Pour boiling water. Let the pulp and ink dissolve.

Soon I’ll hear your sleepy footsteps down the hall. The susurration of whispers in your ear.

Here, my love, I’ll say, sliding the bowl across the table. I made this for you.