In two silent strides, my fictional character was now standing in front of me. He cupped my face and smiled lovingly. I could feel his warm hands on my cheeks and his eyes bore deep into my soul. “Your love is the reason why I am here—the reason why I am with you. It keeps me alive—fuels my life.”
I shook my head, cursing my body’s betrayal for enjoying the contact of our skin. “But how can I love you if you are not real? When you’re simply a product of my imagination?”
“Just because I’m fictional, ’doesn’t mean you can’t love me. I love you, and you’re real... but I still love you. I am real because you make me real.” He couldn’t have said it any better.