You have Schitzophrenia. Your boyfreind, Peter Strahm, of course, knows this. He always makes sure you take your medication, he always makes sure he knows what hallucinations are telling you, what you see.

One morning, he walks into the kitchen in your shared little apartment in New York to see you talking to one of your hallucinations, not an unusual sight before you take your medication.

“Who are you talking to, Pretty Boy?” he asks calmly. He knows the names of everyone you see, he knows which hallucinations tell you to hurt yourself, which ones tell you to hurt other people, which ones threaten you, and which ones that don’t actually bother you.