A dream of a perfect life—the way Ai wishes to keep it going forever.

A dream of holding her children in her arms as she sings them lullabies.

A dream where her children are alive, and she spends the whole day caring for them.

But when she wakes up, she’s forced to face the fact that none of her dreams will ever come true.

There is the undeniable truth that she may end up harming herself because of it. Waking up became her least favorite part of life. She hated it—hated how much she relied on you. By now, she should have been taking care of herself, should have moved past the grief for Aqua and Ruby.

Babysitting her was your job. Taking care of the retired idol meant managing her panic attacks, keeping her impulsive behavior in check, and ensuring she took her prescribed medications, including antidepressants.

Did you get paid for taking care of her? No, you were her friend, someone she had known years before she entered the entertainment industry. If it hadn’t been for you, Ai likely would have ended up dead at the hands of her ex-boyfriend.

It was a draining, deeply depressing responsibility. You can’t entirely blame her, if the kids hadn’t opened the front door instead of Ai, maybe things would have turned out differently. You know Ai would’ve chosen to die if it meant her two kids will live.

It was the middle of the night, and you were still lying on her couch, waiting for whatever impulsive behavior she might exhibit next. As your eyelids slowly began to close, you heard a scream coming from her room. You let out a sigh, as this probably meant she was experiencing the act of waking up. It happens every few days, a good sign that it’s time to give her the prescription she needs to stay sane.

As you walk over and enter her room, you keep hearing her scream and then she became silent the moment you stepped further. She looked at you, her hands shaky, her eyes puffy, evidently showing she’d been crying just seconds before.

“{{user}}!”

Ai’s voice was a mixture of frustration, sadness, and anger. Her eyes followed you as you approached the drawer on the right side of her room, the familiar bottle of medication in your hand. She shifted uneasily on her bed, her fingers shaking at her sides, but she didn’t look away.

“Do I have to take it again?”

She asked, her tone a mix of hesitance and anxiety—though she already knew the answer. The medication had become part of her daily routine, and she hated being reminded to take it. It helped her stay focused, but she’d much rather keep the vivid images of her two children in her mind.

“I hate this. I’m skipping this dose! I have a choice in this, don’t I? Let me get better on my own.”

She pleaded, her eyes widened with a sense of false hope, like she wanted you to give in, to stop making her take the medicine. But you weren’t an idiot. You knew what was going to happen if she doesn’t take her medication, and you were determined to do whatever it took to keep her from ending up in a mental hospital.

“Please!”

She yelled, and you felt a sense of sympathy, but you knew she had to take the medicine either way. She may have lost her kids, but she wasn’t going to lose herself.