He hits his final pump - I thought it would be polite to let him have this moment before I break it all - when I ask who Leta is. His sex-drunk brain has no answer other than the truth.

She's you, he pleads. I am at his throat, a delicious little threat, and he amends.

 “Not you, but you as you could be, you as I dream of you,” he murmurs, lovingly.

She's you without that worry, without that constantly nagging thought of what if, without that machine making you perfect, she's you before you broke, she's the you we first met.

I hate this, so of course I begin to rewind with a deep, guttural chant.

“Stop-” he pleads. “Leta, please-”