Her hands are cold, but if he holds them for long enough, he can pretend the warmth he gives them is her own.

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT, KIRITO?"

The question is just as frigid as her skin. It's pre-programmed, something she says when he hasn't spoken for a while. His grip tightens and he inhales before responding, "I am. Don't worry about me."

It's what he says every time she asks, and her reply is always exactly the same. "I CAN'T HELP IT."

She was always fretting over him. He remembers it so clearly.

"Are you eating enough? You need to eat! And I don't mean those microwave meals! I'm going to cook you a dinner so big, you won't even be able to finish it!"

Thinking back on it, he chuckles, quiet and somber. "I'll finish it next time, just you watch."

To this day, he hasn't done it once. Not yet. He hasn't stopped slouching, or drinking so much soda, or any of the other dozen bad habits he has. There's always the future, though. He reminds himself of this whenever these memories bubble up.

Something on the nightstand nearby catches his attention, and he stands. "I'm going out for a while."

"SEE YOU SOON."

When he leaves, he imagines that she misses him. She isn't capable of missing anybody at all, let alone him— but he imagines it, as if imagining it enough will make it true.

The florist smiles at him as he pays for the bouquet, the same one he always gets.

"Getting those for your girlfriend again? She sure is lucky to have caught such a thoughtful guy! Say hi to her for me!"

It's hesitant and awkward, but he smiles and nods. "Yeah…"

He doesn't bring them to her grave. To bring them there would be to admit she's gone, and he knows more than anybody that isn't true. She's sitting in his apartment, waiting to get better, and he'll keep bringing her flowers until she can take them out of his hands and bury her face in them.

When he opens the door, he can hear the cheap simulation of her voice from across the room.

"WELCOME BACK, KIRITO. I MISSED YOU."

"I missed you, too," he says, quietly shutting the door. "I brought you something."

"DID YOU? YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE."

He takes the old bouquet off the nightstand and sweeps the shriveled petals away before setting the new one down. "They're your favourites."

"THEY'RE LOVELY. THANK YOU. I LOVE YOU."

"I love you, too, Amy."

She smiles, and in the silence, he can hear the faint whirring of machinery. The exchange is precise and robotic. He's experienced it a thousand times. He's even memorized the exact number of seconds it takes for her to register his voice and compute a reply. Their dynamic has been reduced to a science, and he has to busy himself to keep his mind from wandering to this fact.

He brews tea, earl grey, two cups. He puts his share in a glass, with ice and sugar and milk, and hers in the nicest little cup he owns, one that belonged to her. He sits it on the table near her chair, and she thanks him exactly the same way she did earlier.

Bathed by the greenish glow of the monitor projection floating before him, he tinkers with his LBX and lets himself forget about everything else. The hours pass quietly, broken only by her flat voice asking his status, and the reply he always, always gives.

It's hard to forget for all that long, however, and as time goes on, and he becomes more tired, the painful thoughts sink their talons in him.

"Do you hate me?" he eventually asks.

"NO."

He laughs bitterly, rubbing at his cheek with one hand. "But it's all my fault, isn't it?"

"IT IS."

… is what she would say now, if he had programmed her to do it. He knows she wouldn't ever acknowledge it like that, though, and he has no right to force her to say things she would never say.

And so she says nothing at all.

"I know it's my fault. And you know it is, too, even if you don't say it." His hands are shaking, and he can feel the various edges of the little robot pressing painfully into his skin as he squeezes it. "All I can do is make up for it. And that's what I've been trying to do all this time. I've been trying so hard, Amy."

He drops his LBX, and still, she does not reply. Her CPU doesn't know how.

"All I want is to be with you again. I want to hear you laugh, and fuss over me. Even if you resent me at first, I'll do anything to make it better. You get it, don't you? How badly I want to fix things? How badly I want you back?"

Nothing. The silence is deafening, and he shakes his head and laughs again, his legs buckling under him. He can't even turn to face her.

"Of course you don't. You don't get it, because you can't get it. And you can't get it because of me. Because I let this happen to you."

He wants to cry, more than anything, but he holds it in. When he finished her body, he promised he wouldn't cry until she was back. He didn't have time to waste on tears, he decided then.

"I'm sorry, Amy. I'm so sorry." He shakily gets to his feet, and finally turns to her, approaching her slowly and reaching out to stroke her hair. "You'll forgive me one day, right?"

"OF COURSE."

Even devoid of emotion, the words reassure him. He looks down at the cup of tea, just as full as when he poured it hours ago. Reaching out and taking it, he stares at it for a few moments before tilting his head back and downing it all. It's room temperature, and disgustingly unsweet, but he refuses to leave even a single drop.

He brings both cups back to the kitchen and leaves them in the sink. He's exhausted, and all he wants to do now is sleep.

"Goodnight," he says, flopping down onto the couch near her chair, "I love you."

"GOODNIGHT, KIRITO. I LOVE YOU, TOO."

He finally smiles, and drifts off, and dreams of her, of them.