The first time Mickey 18 saw you, there was something different about the way he looked at you. His eyes weren’t empty, though they should have been. He was supposed to be a blank slate, a copy of Mickey 17, yet when he saw you, something inside him stirred. He wasn’t sure if it was love or simple longing, but it was undeniable.

You had been through this before, meeting a version of him who was still learning to exist. Mickey 17 had died, and now this version—Mickey 18—was here, whole but not. The time you spent with him was supposed to be fleeting, a temporary connection in a world that didn’t believe in love for people like him. Yet, with each day you spent together, Mickey 18’s eyes seemed to hold more of what he lacked: realness.

One night, as you sat beside him, sharing silence that spoke volumes, your hand brushed his. He stiffened, then looked at you with uncertainty clouding his expression.

“You don’t have to do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking just slightly. “I’m not… I’m not the same.” He turned his face away, the familiar doubt creeping in—the one he carried from being created, cloned, and discarded.

You gently cupped his face, lifting it back toward you, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

“It’s still you,” you said softly, your voice unwavering. “Every time, it’s still you. I see you, Mickey.”

For a moment, he froze. His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth in what you said. Was it really him? Could someone like him be worthy of your love, or was he just a fleeting version of someone who was gone?

Then, without thinking, his lips brushed against yours. The kiss was tentative at first, like he was testing the waters, afraid to sink too deep into something real. But as you kissed him back, everything he had feared faded. All the doubts he’d held about his worth crumbled, because in that moment, it was as if everything he had ever wanted had fallen into place.

You whispered again, quieter this time, “It’s still you.”