Victor's eyes opened wide for a fraction of a moment. "I-- know what you mean," he said.
Alright, he knew who she was. He would have had to have been living under a rock not to, but she had one? And why was he feeling this way around her? Why was she making him see things? Or rather, why was he seeing things around her? About her? With her?
No one could ever know just how much of a game it was. He had convinced himself he could keep his secrets, could keep all the things he felt buried inside. True, deep feelings only ever led to hurt -- his brush with vile love unrequited had taught him nothing if not that.
No, it had to just be something he'd seen on the television before falling asleep one night -- that was it. Really. But he knew that wasn't quite right.
His mind raced. "Does it look the same inside?" he asked, unable to help himself. He offered her the journal, his scribblings and Moleskine notebook with his creative little pseudonym on its first page forgotten inside. His thoughts were instead on just how to brush his hands against hers if she went to take it -- he, too, of course, had the very distinct urge to try to make sure that she was real, not just another dream gone too soon.