[ For a little bit, he stares at the message, frowning. Not because he doesn't want to answer, no, but it's dredged up the muck he keeps buried. All that shit he kept in line while dealing with Cobb and the Fischer job. And before that, year's of dreamshare mishaps, those horrible deaths, some slow, others quick (but painful). In some ways, he counts it as a blessing that he doesn't dream naturally anymore.

Still, this is something like progress. She's right, he hasn't shown any of his cards and that feels unfair. Imbalanced.

He doesn't respond via text; it doesn't convey nearly as much. ]

I had this friend, Mallorie. She was really a best friend and she got married to another friend, Dom. I was the best man at their wedding, at the hospital when she gave birth, both times. They were the happiest people I'd ever known in my life.

[ This feels unreal, like he's talking about someone else. Someone from a lifetime ago. ]

On their seventh anniversary, she jumped from the tenth story window at a hotel. She didn't think our world was real.