The breaking point came during what seemed like a perfectly normal conversation about dinner plans. Finn was feeling more stable than he had in days when words started emerging from his mouth that he didn't remember choosing to say.
“I think we should go with the salmon for the main course,” Finn said, his voice carrying the tone of someone continuing an established discussion. “It's more elegant than chicken, and your mother always said she preferred fish at formal events.”
River looked up from his laptop with obvious confusion. “Salmon for what?”
“For the reception dinner. The caterer said we need to finalize the menu by Friday if we want to guarantee availability.” Finn felt his chest warm with excitement, the same emotions he'd felt during months of careful planning. “I know you wanted something simple, but with both our families coming, we should probably go with something more sophisticated.”
River went completely still, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm. “Finn, what reception? What caterer?”
“For our wedding,” Finn said, then felt the words hang in the air like something toxic as he realized what he'd revealed. “The reception dinner for our wedding next month.”
“We're not getting married next month. We're not planning a wedding.” River's voice was gentle but firm, delivering truth that felt like physical impact. “We've never discussed marriage or talked to caterers or made any wedding plans.”
The words hit Finn like ice water, reality reasserting itself with devastating clarity. The excitement in his chest turned cold as he processed what River was telling him. There was no wedding, no caterer, no reception dinner they'd been planning for months.
“We're not?” Finn's voice came out small and confused.
“We've never talked about marriage, Finn. We've never made plans like that.” River's voice carried growing concern as he realized the scope of what Finn had been experiencing. “What you're describing—none of that has happened.”
Finn felt the world shift sideways as he understood how severely his grip on reality had deteriorated. He could remember the proposal with perfect clarity—River nervous but determined, the conversation about their future, the quiet joy of deciding to build a life together. But apparently it had all occurred inside his own mind.
“But I remember everything,” Finn whispered, his voice breaking with confusion and growing terror. “The planning, the decisions, the excitement about our future together. It feels completely real.”
“I know it feels real,” River said, moving closer with obvious alarm. “But Finn, we've never had those conversations. We've never made those plans.”
The realization that he'd been living in elaborate fantasy while River remained anchored in consensus reality hit Finn with devastating force. His condition hadn't just progressed—it had reached the point where he couldn't distinguish between lived experience and imagination.
The shock triggered something that felt like drowning, not in water but in time itself. Finn felt himself sliding away from River's cottage, from the conversation, from everything that anchored him to the present moment.
What followed felt like living entire lifetimes compressed into impossible duration. Decades of partnership with River rushed past in vivid detail—anniversaries and quiet mornings, fights that led to deeper understanding, the gradual accumulation of shared experiences that formed the foundation of lasting love. Finn experienced years of domestic happiness, watching seasons change through cottage windows, growing older together with deep contentment.
He felt the weight of established routines, the comfort of being known completely by someone who loved him without reservation, the satisfaction of building something meaningful with a partner who understood him completely. But underneath the joy ran constant awareness that none of it was actually happening, that his body remained unconscious while his mind created elaborate fantasies.
The experiences felt more real than reality, more satisfying than any actual relationship could be, which somehow made returning to consciousness even more devastating. When Finn finally surfaced back to awareness, the cottage was full of concerned voices and emergency medical equipment.
“How long?” Finn asked, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.
“Six hours,” River said, his voice rough with strain. “You've been completely unresponsive. We couldn't wake you up, couldn't get any response at all.”
Finn felt hollow and disconnected, like someone recovering from profound loss. The memories of his extended fantasy remained vivid and emotionally satisfying, which made facingactual reality feel like mourning something beautiful that had never existed.
“I lived decades,” Finn said quietly. “Years and years of life with you, growing old together, building the kind of relationship that most people never get to experience. But it was all in my head, wasn't it?”
Dr. Voss leaned forward with obvious professional fascination. “The neurological activity during your episode was extraordinary. Your brain responses suggested you were processing experiences as if they were occurring over extended periods of real time.”
“But they weren't real experiences. They were fantasies my damaged brain created because it can't handle actual reality anymore.” Finn tried to sit up and immediately felt dizzy, the room spinning in ways that had nothing to do with his episode.
“We need to get you to the hospital,” River said, his voice tight with worry as he noted Finn's pale complexion and obvious disorientation. “Six hours of unconsciousness isn't something we can handle on our own.”
“I'm fine,” Finn protested weakly, though his body was clearly not cooperating.
“You're not fine. You collapsed, you've been unconscious for six hours, and now you can barely sit up without getting dizzy.” River was already reaching for his phone, his protective instincts in full gear. “I'm calling an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” Finn said, mustering enough strength to sound firm. “But... maybe the emergency room. Just to make sure everything's okay.”
Dr. Voss began packing her equipment with obvious reluctance. “I should accompany you. The medical staff will need context about his condition.”
River helped Finn to his feet, noting how unsteady he remained, how much effort it took for him to coordinate simple movements. “Can you walk to the car?”
