Page 75 of Cold Comeback
"What the hell was that down there? Chakras and puck consciousness?"
"Authenticity," I said, but my voice cracked on the word.
"That wasn't authentic. That was you having a breakdown on camera."
"How do you know the difference?"
Gideon frowned. "What do you mean?"
The panic that had started in the interview came rushing back, twice as strong. "What if how I feel about you is only me reflecting what you want to see? What if I'm a mirror that learned to talk?"
His face went pale. "Thatcher—"
"I watched three versions of myself on that screen, and I couldn't tell which one was real. I didn't know what I actually wanted for breakfast, let alone what drove me." I couldn't stop myself. "What if there's nothing underneath? What if I'm only an empty room that echoes whatever people expect to hear?"
"You're spiraling—"
"What if I don't actually love you?"
Gideon stepped backward like I'd hit him. The hurt in his eyes slammed me in the gut, but the ache felt distant, like it was happening to someone else.
He spoke quietly. "You don't mean that."
"How would I know if I meant it or not? How would you?"
He opened his mouth and closed it. Then, he tried again. "Because—because you weren't performing for anyone when Ifell asleep on your shoulder during movie night. You helped Bricks at 2 AM when no cameras were rolling."
"What if those were just—"
"What if they weren't?" Gideon's hands clenched into fists.
I stared at him, thrown by the anger in his voice. "You think I don't know what it's like?" he continued. "You think I haven't spent years wondering if the captain everyone looks up to is just an act? If the guy who gives speeches and makes decisions is just me performing what I think leadership looks like?"
"That's different—"
"It's not different!" He was breathing hard. "It's the same fucking fear, Thatcher. That we're both only empty rooms reflecting what people need to see."
For a moment, we stared at each other across three feet of space that might as well have been the Grand Canyon. His shoulders sagged. "I can't convince you that what you feel is real. That's something you have to figure out for yourself."
He ran both hands through his hair. "And I can't—I can't sit here and watch you tear apart everything we've built because you're scared it might not be authentic."
He paused at the door. "When you figure out whether you want me or only think you should want me, let me know."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, trying to feel something definitive about his absence. Relief? Sadness? Fear?
Instead, it was like watching someone else's life through thick glass.
I tried an experiment. Sitting perfectly still, I attempted to identify something I genuinely wanted to do. Not what I should do, what would look good, or what would help someone else… what I wanted.
Ten minutes of stillness produced nothing but increasing anxiety.
In desperation, I pulled out my phone and called the one person who might be able to confirm I'd once been a real person.
"Thatch?" I heard the concern in Gina's voice. "It's not even noon. What's wrong?"
"I think I might not be a real person."
