Page 30 of Evermore

Fractured Reality

Finn

F inn opened his eyes and immediately felt like he was swimming up from deep water, consciousness returning in layers that didn't quite align with each other.

River sat at the kitchen table with his laptop, morning light streaming through windows, and everything looked exactly right except for the nagging sense that something fundamental had shifted while he slept.

“Morning, love,” River said, glancing up with a smile that made Finn's chest warm with familiar affection.

“Hey,” Finn replied, the word carrying more weight than it should have, like an echo of countless similar mornings they'd shared together.

“You were talking in your sleep again. Something about needing to water the tomatoes before it got too hot.” River closed his laptop, giving Finn his full attention. “Sounded urgent, whatever it was.”

Finn felt a flicker of confusion because he could clearly remember their garden—neat rows of vegetables they'd planted together, the way River had insisted on building raised beds even though Finn thought they were overkill, the satisfaction of their first harvest. The memory was so vivid he could smell the soil, feel the sun on his back as they worked side by side on weekend mornings.

But looking out the cottage windows, there was only wild coastal grass and rocky shoreline. No garden. No raised beds. No evidence they'd ever grown anything together.

“Must have been dreaming,” Finn said carefully, not wanting to admit how real the garden felt in his memory.

“Must have been a good dream. You seemed happy.” River stood and moved toward the coffee maker, his movements carrying easy familiarity. “Want some breakfast? I was thinking about making those blueberry pancakes you love.”

Another ripple of confusion. Finn couldn't remember expressing a preference for blueberry pancakes, couldn't recall River making them before, but the suggestion felt right in ways he couldn't explain. Like remembering something that should have happened but hadn't.

“Sure,” Finn said, because agreeing seemed safer than trying to navigate the gap between what felt familiar and what he could actually remember.

River moved around the kitchen with comfortable efficiency, gathering ingredients and heating the pan, humming softly under his breath. Everything about the scene felt domestic and established, like they'd been doing this dance for years instead of months.

“River,” Finn said carefully, “how long have we been together?”

River paused in his pancake preparation, something shifting in his expression. “You know how long. Why are you asking?”

“Humor me.”

“A few months. Since you found that letter in the bottle and came to return it.” River's voice carried gentle concern. “Are you feeling confused again?”

Finn nodded, because confused felt accurate. The timeline River described felt both right and completely inadequate for the depth of intimacy he felt between them.

“It feels like longer,” Finn admitted.

River was quiet for a moment, clearly processing Finn's words. “The episodes have been getting more frequent. Maybe they're affecting your perception of time, creating false memories of experiences we haven't actually shared.”

“False memories?”

“Dr. Voss mentioned it's possible with your condition. Your brain might be filling gaps with experiences that feel real but never actually happened.” River's voice was gentle but firm. “Like the garden you just mentioned. We've never grown vegetables together, but your mind created a memory of it.”

The explanation hit Finn like cold water. The garden memory felt absolutely real—the weight of tools in his hands, the satisfaction of working in soil, quiet conversations while they weeded between rows. But according to River, none of it had ever happened.

“How many of my memories are fake?” Finn asked quietly.

“I don't know. But we'll figure it out together.” River moved closer, his presence immediately comforting. “The important thing is that what we have right now is real.”

“I love you,” Finn said suddenly, the words emerging without conscious decision but carrying absolute certainty.

“I love you too,” River replied immediately, his voice warm with matching conviction. “More than I thought possible in such a short time.”

The qualifier—“in such a short time”—should have been reassuring. But it only highlighted the disconnect between the timeline River described and the depth of connection Finn experienced. If their relationship was only months old, why did loving River feel like the most natural thing in the world?

The cottage's spare room had become Finn's refuge, a place where he could try to sort through his increasingly unreliable memories without worrying about alarming River.

He'd covered the walls with lists and diagrams, desperate attempts to create some framework for understanding what was happening to his mind.

Real memories (probably): Meeting River at the bookshop, the tide pool exploration, moving in together.

False memories (definitely): The garden, detailed knowledge of River's preferences, conversations we've never had.

Uncertain: The depth of my feelings, how well I think I know him, whether our connection is real or manufactured by my brain.

The lists grew longer each day, filled with observations that never seemed to resolve into clarity. Finn found himself caught between trusting his emotions and accepting the timeline River described.

River found him there that afternoon, surrounded by notebooks and scattered papers.

“What's all this?” River asked gently, settling beside Finn on the spare room's narrow bed.

“My attempt to figure out what's real,” Finn said simply. “Turns out it's more complicated than I expected.”

River examined some of the lists, his expression growing more concerned as he read. “You've been spending a lot of time thinking about this.”

“I've been spending a lot of time confused about this.

There's a difference.” Finn gestured toward the evidence of his mental struggle.

“Everything feels simultaneously familiar and impossible.

I love you with the intensity of someone who's been building a life with you for years, but apparently we've only known each other for not that long.”

“Intense feelings can develop quickly under the right circumstances,” River said carefully. “What we've been through together—that kind of shared experience can accelerate emotional connections.”

“Is that what you think this is? Accelerated emotional connection?”

River was quiet, clearly struggling with his own questions about their relationship's rapid development. “I think we found something special, and I think the circumstances made us both more open to connection than we might normally be. But that doesn't make what we have less real.”

Finn wanted to believe that, but the explanation felt inadequate for the depth of familiarity he experienced with River. The way they moved around each other, the comfortable silences, the sense that they understood each other on levels that usually took years to develop.

“What if my brain is creating false memories to fill in gaps?” Finn asked quietly. “What if I'm not actually remembering real experiences with you, but generating fake ones based on what I wish our relationship was like?”

“Then we deal with that. We figure out how to build something real regardless of what your brain is doing with memory.” River's voice was steady but carried undertones of uncertainty.

Before Finn could respond, Dr. Voss arrived for one of her regular check-ins, carrying her usual medical bag but looking more serious than her previous visits. She moved through the cottage with clinical authority, setting up basic monitoring equipment.

“The current medication seems to be helping with episode frequency,” she observed, checking Finn's blood pressure and pulse. “But we're still seeing significant symptoms that suggest ongoing neurological instability.”

“What does that mean for treatment?” Finn asked, though part of him wasn't sure he wanted to know.

“It means we may need to adjust the current protocol.

The medication is managing some symptoms, but we're still seeing breakthrough episodes.” Dr. Voss opened her bag to reveal additional pill bottles and monitoring tools.

“I've been developing more targeted approaches based on your specific responses.”

River leaned forward with obvious concern. “More targeted how?”

“Different medication combinations, adjusted dosages, additional supplements that might prevent the neurological events entirely rather than just reducing their frequency.” Dr. Voss's voice carried medical authority, but also something more personal.

“We're learning more about your condition with each episode, which allows me to refine the treatment.”

The prospect of adjusted treatment felt both hopeful and frightening. Finn's current medication had helped somewhat, but the episodes were still occurring, still pulling him away from reality.

“What would the adjustment involve?” Finn asked.

“Modified dosages of your current medications, plus additional compounds that target the specific brain regions showing unusual activity.” Dr. Voss began organizing her materials.

“The goal would be to stabilize your neurological responses completely, eliminate the displacement episodes, restore reliable memory and temporal perception.”

“And if the new combination doesn't work?”

“Then we continue refining until we find the right approach for your specific condition.” Dr. Voss's confidence was both reassuring and slightly unsettling. “Every case is different, but I'm optimistic about the protocols we're developing.”

Finn felt cautiously hopeful. His current situation—living with uncertainty about his own perceptions, unable to trust his memories—was exhausting.

“I want to try the adjusted treatment,” Finn said.