“Well, Charlotte,” my mom says, and I turn back to her, having almost forgotten in the moment that she was there. She gives me a light punch on the arm. “You done good,” she says with a sappy grin.

That’s the night I reach the door.

I see it as soon as I step out onto the reflective floor. I start to sprint, but it seems to fall away from me even faster when I run.

So I stop and walk instead, keeping a steady pace. It’s changed, I realize, as I draw near at that same odd two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of thing. When I first saw it, it was a rough-hewn but solid door made from long, thick beams of heavy wood. Lately there’ve been windows. Two nights ago one, and last night there were two. Now the door is filled with four long, thin panes of glass that cover nearly the entire surface.

I’m three feet away when I lean forward and make a grab for the doorknob.

Only to have the door retreat and widen the distance.

So I wait and walk, and soon I’m so close I almost can’t not touch it. I don’t stop walking, but I raise my hand and slowly bring it toward the doorknob. Only when my fingers are wrapped all the way around the knob do I finally let them close into a fist.

And the door stops, as though anchored to reality by contact with my hand.

One thing I know for sure; I am not letting go.

I turn the knob and it’s locked. Should have figured.

But those windows. I step closer to the door and peer through the beveled-glass panes.

On the other side is a similarly domed room, but infinitely smaller than mine. Not to mention darker. There are a handful of scenes cast onto the ceiling, but I can’t make out any details from here. A strange energy pulses right at the door—almost like vibrations from loud music—and I have no clue what it means.

I see a stirring of movement behind the slightly wavy glass.

Is someone in there? Somebody else on my supernatural plane? That doesn’t make sense. But someone locked the door. I pound on the door’s rough surface and the movement retreats until I can’t see it anymore.

“Hey!” I shout. This is my world; at the very least I should be able to boss the people in it around.

In an effort to get whoever’s in there to come back, I raise both hands to pound even louder but as soon as my skin loses contact with the doorknob, the door slips away.

“Damn it!” I yell. I stand staring at the door, wondering if I can catch it in a shorter time if I start walking right now.

But before I can make a decision, the dome around me darkens. Not darkens—dims. Just enough to notice. There’s one glowing square high above, and with no focus or effort on my part, it rolls down the spherical wall and comes nearer until it stands right in front of me, inviting me to enter.

“Linden,” I breathe, and step into the scene, forgetting the door.

It’s tomorrow, I think. Linden is walking into my house, a grin on his face, steaming take-out cartons in his arms, and lacy bits of snow in his hair. As my mom wheels up and offers to take something, I see myself slip my hand into his, twining our fingers. I look at those fingers, wishing I were living the scene, not just watching it. Wishing and wanting so hard that I start to feel warmth against my palm.

And then I look up into Linden’s eyes as he squeezes my hand.

He leads the way into the kitchen, leaving me standing there with the chilly air blowing snowflakes into the foyer.

I’m in the scene. Living my own role. I lift a hesitant hand to push the door closed and am a little surprised when it moves. A smile curls across my face. The only thing better than a perfect date is getting to experience it twice. Without another thought, I throw myself fully into the scene, desperate to enjoy myself for once.

I can hardly believe this isn’t real as I fork a buttery mouthful of Alfredo sauce into my mouth, bite into a crispy crust of bread, taste the bitter tinge of espresso in the tiramisu. There’s nothing that doesn’t feel real as the meal ends and the movie begins. Not that Linden or I see much of the movie. That’s the beauty of a dream world. I feel the scene subtly shift to my whims.

Of course I pick the choice with the most kissing. What can it hurt? I know that tomorrow when we’re actually at my house, on my couch, with my mother only a room away, I won’t be bold enough to do all of the things my dream self did, but tonight I revel in it.

“It’s my parents,” Linden says when his phone chimes out a text message. “Time for Mr. Bodyguard to bring me home.” He pulls me close and lays his lips against my neck. “I’d rather stay here.” He kisses me again, long and lingering, before standing and pulling me to my feet.

“I’ll walk you out to the car,” I say, stretching.

“No,” Linden says so quickly it startles me. “The guy will come to the door,” he says.

I turn very solemn. “Are you afraid?” I ask, knowing I would never have the guts to ask something so personal in real life.

He’s quiet for a second and I see the muscles on his face flex. It makes him look younger. “For you? Yes.”

“For yourself?” I press.

“Sometimes,” he says. He turns and runs his fingertips down the side of my face. “But I would risk a lot of danger to see you.” He straightens and opens the door, leaving without a kiss. But his confession feels somehow even more intimate and a small hollow part of me mourns that it wasn’t real.

As the door swings closed behind him, my eyes flutter and open to the sunlight filtering into my bedroom through my half-open blinds and I sigh in sheer content.