"Wow, what a bitch," Della said as I swung the closet's doors open. "She could have been more understanding."

Even in the dim light, I could make out her mocking smirk. I clenched my jaw, but stopped myself from lashing out. I should have known that Della wouldn't miss tonight's show; she was a voyeur through and through.

"It's partly my fault," I said with forced calm, walking to the window. "I should have waited. I caught her by surprise, and she didn't take it well."

I turned the shader off and took in the sights of Grimpark Space Station. The view from my apartment was truly shit. Cold and lifeless, the vast sea of metal blotted out the endless space and its blinking stars. All I could see was large, multi-storey warehouses, most of them abandoned decades ago. Normally I used filters to change the view, but this time it fit my current mood perfectly.

"So, do you think you still have a chance with her?" Della asked. "You just need to give her some time?"

She jumped out of the closet and did a little pirouette in the middle of the room, her simple dress flaring around her. The white dress complemented her alabaster skin well, especially in the pale light of the room. It was as if the colors had been washed out of her, as if she was an apparition not of this world. Only her short red hair ruined the effect, jutting out from her head like the flame of a torch.

"I don't know, Della," I replied. "You heard her, she has a husband."

"Aww, you poor thing," she said, smirking. "Don't worry, you have me. I don't have any husbands."

She hopped onto the bed and lied down on the exact spot that Vivienne had vacated minutes ago. She took a deep breath—inhaling my lingering scent, no doubt—and stretched provocatively, the dress hiking up on her slender legs to reveal her smooth tights.

"You're heartless," I said, only half-joking. "How can you do this? Don't you have any empathy?"

"I do! I swear I do!" Her words were slightly undermined as she formed a heart with her slender fingers and peered through it at me. "I feel for you. I wouldn't abandon you, not like this Vivanna did."

"Vivienne."

"Yes, her. You're lucky that I'm much more patient than any of these girls you keep bringing up to your room. I know that if I'm persistent enough, eventually you'll give me your heart."

She rolled to the side of the bed, hanging her head down at the edge, watching me upside down. "I will never leave your side, Connor."

"Yes, I know that," I told her flatly. "That's exactly what bothers me so much."

Della giggled. "Why? Because deep down you know that I'm the one you truly desire?"

"No. You're just a creepy stalker, who shouldn't even be on this Station."

"Meanie," she said, sticking out her tongue. She then scuttled back on the bed and hugged my pillow close to her body, sniffing it and . . . well, doing nothing that would refute what I'd just said. I had a feeling that whenever I called her out on her behavior, it just excited her even more.

I sighed tiredly, then slumped down next to the coffee table, sitting with my back to Della, staring out the window. I was tired. Tired, but not sleepy. It was late in the night, and I would have to be up early in the morning, so I figured that I might as well stay awake.

"Della?" I asked. She was moaning softly behind me. "Don't do that again."

"Mmm? Do what? Masturbate on your bed?"

"No, but— Ugh, don't do that either. Anyways, stop spying on me when I'm with someone else. What would have happened if Vivienne saw you?"

I could almost feel her shrug behind me. "These what-ifs are pointless when I'm so good at hiding. Besides, what would you expect me to do? I don't have a room of my own, and I have to stay somewhere."

"The old warehouse," I said. "You could stay down there with the children."

"Oh, so you're calling them children now? Monsters would be more appropriate."

"They are victims, Della, but they are still children."

"I'm not a victim nor a child, Connor. Would you have me sleep with them? In that dark and scary warehouse, all alone?"

I didn't say anything, but if I was honest with myself then yes, that was what I wanted her to do. Better than her pestering me all the time, reminding me of choices I shouldn't have made.

"Did you check on them recently?" I asked after a few quiet minutes. "Are they okay?"

"The children?" Della asked. "Yes, I did see to them. I won't lie and say that they're alright, but they aren't worse off than before."

"Good."

There was little talk after that. I did my best to ignore Della, opting to brood over Vivienne. I had known that I was nothing more than a distraction for her, but still . . . the rejection stung. I supposed that I had been too optimistic—the light of her radiance blinding me—and I misjudged her. I hadn't been expecting her to reciprocate my feelings, but I hoped that she would understand. I had hoped that she would be better than this.

And yet, and yet . . . I couldn't bring myself to hate her. I tried to view this whole thing from her perspective, tried to imagine what she had probably felt, and I found that for all her faults, I still loved her. It wasn't an all-consuming teenage love—I couldn't even remember if I had felt that way in the last two decades—but it was love nonetheless.