started, I haven’t been able to make anything work. I just don’t . . . I don’t feel it, no matter how hard I try. It’s like all other girls have gone black and white, and the one in my head is the only one in color.” Dylan paused, searching for some point of comparison. “Have you ever
read “The Zahir”?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“I read it in World Lit class a couple of years ago. It’s a short story about a magic coin that causes whoever finds it to become so obsessed that it’s all they can think about, so that eventually they can’t even feed themselves.”
Scratch, scratch went the doctor’s pen.
“I’m not to that extreme,” he rushed to add, “but this feels like the beginning of that story.”
Dylan frowned.
“Maybe I really am going over the edge. Do you think I’m schizophrenic?” “Are you hearing voices? Seeing her anywhere outside of your dreams?” “No, nothing like that,” Dylan protested, then, after a pause, sunk back in the couch in resignation. “But sometimes it feels as though I almost could, like she’s on the verge of manifesting right outside the edge of my sight, or that I could close my eyes and walk straight towards her.”
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