His world has become a nightmare, but still, he knows reality from fiction.
He knows that what he dreams of at night, when he dreams, when the nightmares don’t just replay inside his head, is not real.
He knows it never happened, and likely never will. It is not a memory of a softer time, but regret given form.
He takes comfort in it anyway.
When he dreams of Romana (sharp-tongued and teasing, smiling and warm, her hair like the sunshine he hasn’t seen in such a long time), he awakes slowly, reluctant to leave her.
It has been years since he saw her, heard from, heard of her. She must be dead, like so many others; they wasted their time, left it too late.
He knows reality from fiction, but still, he clings to their promise by day, and seeks her out at night.