When the Warm Mist Hangs Over Her First Makeup

Those of us who remain here are merely a piece of the past, a shadow left behind. We can only stay here. We can’t touch the reality you live in, or accompany you into the future. When you leave this place and return to your ordinary life, you know perfectly well that everything that happened here was a story, a fictional story. Before long, you may forget these things and forget that we ever existed. You’ll meet someone better than me, or perhaps you already have. In the end, you still have your own life to live, and a tomorrow of your own to embrace. Do our feelings, our thoughts, our will, and our actions really mean anything anymore? What do we mean to you, or to anyone?