[He’s not going to forget how to breathe, or be unable to control the beat of his heart. And yet the very suggestion that he might lose cognizant control of it makes him press a hand to his chest, to feel that organ beating within. Makes him purposefully breathe in and out, in and out, in case he forgets.

Hopefully he won’t hyperventilate at this rate.]

I just— this is impossible. The door having changed me into something I’m not.

[ He hasn’t ripped his eyes from the mirror. It’s surreal.]

I can’t remain like this. This isn’t who I am.