He told her a long time ago that none of this was real, that this life was a dream. She told him, as gently as she could, that it was real, it must be real, the details too perfect for some dreamland his sleeping brain conjured. That's what you say to someone who's gone mad, and he believed her.
The thing is... he was right.
The thing is, he woke up.
The thing is, dreams don't stay after the dream's done.
She can't blame him for waking up. He has a life to go back to, a family a world away who missed him. What's a dream compared to reality but mist and fog, and half-remembered not-quite love?
The thing is, while the rest of the dream evaporates, all the people they knew, the cars and the colour and the sun, she's still there, wandering the dark and colourless streets of one man's abandoned dream-Manchester.
The thing is, he imagined her too well.