***

When the system dialed up, my previously black vision was greeted by a swathe of white. Matte walls framed chairs that were as simple and boring as geometry questions brought to life, and grayish light filtered through a few windows, illuminating specs of dust that were like sneeze-inducing snow. The place was reasonably organized and chic, books and plants placed along shelves like in some movie—more showy than lived-in, really.

Dorm room chic, if I had to be specific.

This had to be a joke, right? I didn’t know what my biggest Christmas wish was, but dealing with this room was on my naughty list.

Had I purchased a set for augmented rather than virtual reality? If that was the case, that was some of the most blatantly false advertising I had ever seen, and this was coming from someone who fell for scams like placebo buttons at intersections and cheap mood bracelets that broke in five minutes.

I even reached out and touched my faux leather couch, and the texture was so accurate that either this technology was quite advanced or I had been conned into giving up my rainy-day fund—which, admittedly, wasn’t very much since I resorted to buying a disposable VR system.

However, there was soon a set of ominous knocks on my door, and I froze like the heater shut off.

Most likely, the only people here were for maintenance, and I wasn’t expecting any visitors. What code violation had I committed this time? It wasn’t like I was running a hot pot by a gas line again (highly unrecommended).

Through the small peephole that made me rise to my tiptoes, I spotted a fisheye rendition of my two friends—Claire and Lori—standing outside my room. They were dressed in gaudy Christmas sweaters—ugly things with as much fleece as cat hair and enough lights that they could be seen from space. What the hell were these two doing here?

Right. This would be the first genuine test of the VR set, and it was already apparent that the emotional effects would not kick in until later. Sure, my friends could surprise me like this, but who in the world would have paid for an express trip back from Canada just to screw with me? Not even these two would have, but had they not gone in the first place?

As if strangers stood beyond my door—perhaps like in those horror movies where people were skinned alive and became costumes for the perpetrators—I yelled, “Claire! Lori! Why are you two here?”

The wood vibrated and made me recoil. Definitely Claire. “Open the hell up! You’re not backing out on the party now! We’ve even got some snacks.” The indistinct rattling of chip bags punctuated her demands.

“We brought like half the girls in our department! Come on!” Lori added.

“What party are you…?”

As I spoke, the lights in my room dimmed as if I were in a movie theatre or stage show—as if this were all a prank. The floor rumbled like a volcano before exploding in the sound of muffled EDM from boomboxes, giving the room an auditory haze. Glasses clanged behind me, and when I turned around, it was like I was the perfect hostess.

Though on a smaller scale, the ugly stump of a tree from before now rivalled the one sitting in Times Square, and it was now covered in ornaments and garlands to the extent that its green leaves barely poked through metallic sheens and candy cane patterns. Snowflakes hung like little roundabouts in a nursery, shining like glimmers of fractured glass. I wondered if they were just as sharp, but the soft edges of a sleigh ride diorama left on loop like a toy train in the living room balanced the pointed glitter.

There was no doubt about it; this system was not a hoax!

Figuring the worst that could happen by now was a technological meltdown, I sighed yet grinned, clicking the lock on the door to allow Claire and Lori inside.

“Come on—”

When my friends said they brought half the department, they weren’t kidding. I stiffened awkwardly by the door, attempting to hold my ground. Claire was prone to exaggerations that were as unfounded as fables and folklore, but the subsequent rush of people entering like a great flood was coming substantiated her statement.

How the hell was my room going to fit this many girls, and wasn’t this against some fire code? We’d need to open up the whole floor for a slight chance of not turning into sardines.

Yet while I worried like there was an incoming catastrophe, I glanced back into the room, now wallowing in the isolation of knowing nobody in such a large crowd, searching endlessly for someone who may or may not be present.

If this wasn’t the VR technology working its magic, I was surely in a Picasso or Dalí painting with all the surrealism surrounding me, lurking in a dream.

Long gone were my two friends, buried in rings of partygoers, and the apartment walls gave way to older plaster and wooden boards on accent walls, the furniture now in warm, earthy tones. It wasn’t like this place was now a mansion, but a quick stroll into the airy space of the living room led to a corridor with several small bedrooms, each with speckles of light from the afternoon sun passing through the door in the shape of a triangle. At the end of the hall, just after a meek closet that rested in the shadows, was a larger bedroom that remained closed, and the people at the celebration soon filtered into every room but those two, crowding the hallway like a clogged drain.

It was soon obvious: This was my childhood home, but the views from the window were as if it had been superimposed onto a loft with the same views as my dorm.

I pushed through the chaos. If the place of my dreams happened to be the blending of my two worlds, would it also mean that my parents were somewhere to be found, specifically beyond that barred door? Maybe I would get to see them after all today.

And maybe they would be just as sweet and soft as I remembered they were after having not seen them since the summer, only occasionally hearing my mother’s worried, nagging voice through the phone alongside my dad’s baritone interjections.

Of course, moving through a crowd this dense was easier said than done, and I wanted to scold Claire and Lori for not having a little more discretion about the number of people they dragged or herded here. Knowing them, there was totally some silly coercion involved.

While not particularly bothered, I moved like a firefighter on her mission, clearing the way and shouting when necessary. After all, I was the one in control of this scenario, and while I did feel bad about being so commandeering because everyone here looked and felt real with the sweat and roughness of their clothes, I kept in mind this was just a simulation.

However, though everyone else parted like continental drift, I managed to run into someone whose frame stuck out, halting me.

“Sorry,” I instinctively muttered, embarrassed but not necessarily shy as the music nearly drowned out my voice. “Gotta get through—”

I glanced up at the woman, realizing I had decked her arm and shoulder. My breath caught like it had been ensnared by a fishing line.

Fuck. She was exactly my type.

With short black hair in an undercut, her bangs swooshed over her head as effortlessly as a particular shoe logo, the rest of her hair dangling as if she were a model for the sweatpants and combat boots that caught my attention while looking down. Layered atop the straps of a dark sports bra, she wore a white sleeveless shirt with the black outline of a hand with only the nails on the middle and ring fingers cut short—basically, about the gayest image on a shirt short of writing “LESBIAN” or “BI” directly.

It probably would have made me audibly cackle had I not caught sight of her toned muscles, which were dyed more in a sandy color than the almost woody tone of my own skin.

So… about those posts online about muscular girls?

Yeah, she deserved rambles of appreciation, especially as all these features nestled a face with a gentler appearance, straddled somewhere between Japanese features like mine and perhaps some European ancestry. Her expression showed no traces of concern, her nose and jaw pointed yet evocative of the kind of prowess that sought to care and protect rather than harm. I figured even her hazel eyes would glow if she weren’t stuck in the dark nooks of a college party.

I grew self-conscious under her strong gaze, wondering if she would consider giving me her attention but growing doubtful until she acknowledged me with an eyebrow raise.

Hah, sanity? What was that?

But I had never seen her before, right? Was this the VR creating the illusion of the perfect woman, or had her face escaped my conscious awareness at some point in the past, only to have this information excavated for a fantasy? I doubted the legitimacy of my second guess since I surely would have recalled a woman like her if she had entered so much as my peripheral vision.

Still, I grew flushed as she placed a hand on my shoulder, staring for just a second too long, asking, “Are you okay, beautiful?”

If I wasn’t already burning up, I was now a nuclear reactor when I nodded back. “I’m all good.”

The radiant smile she returned was about one second away from blinding me from my mission, but like the beauty of an eclipse, I forced myself to stare at some point away from her so as not to ruin my eyes. If I spoiled my standards by setting them too high in this simulation, would I forever reach for a person who was so ethereal that she couldn’t exist?

Awkwardly, I squirmed my way out of the conversation with another head bob, running off like some flustered heroine in a drama.

Three-quarters of the way down the hall, I paused, peering back, and I found the woman still staring at me, a rosy tint painting her face. She waved with an air of confidence that was beyond even my expectations.

No! Looking at the sun was bad!

I straightened up, turning around and leaping to the master bedroom.

I had to remember this was a dream. I didn’t need to start talking to her and getting attached.

But why? Wasn’t this technology created to allow me to enjoy myself, nursing a lonely heart to full health through the perfect satisfaction of wishes? Why, then, was I so opposed to my own happiness when it was practically spoon-fed to me?

Shaking my head, I jangled the doorknob and found it was completely locked. Perhaps it was like an invisible barrier in a video game that aimed to keep me from going out of bounds, so to speak.

Doing the exact same thing and expecting different results was sometimes called insanity. Such a rule did not apply when no other rules of logic did either, and after a few more seconds of fiddling with the knob, it spun with no resistance, nearly coming unhinged with the amount of force I was using.

When I entered, the bedroom felt antiquated compared to the hazy, modern vibe of the party right outside. It was like an old storage unit with tarps and blankets holding years of dust, just waiting to be disturbed like an ant bed.

My parents had always been like that, leaving wrappings and whatnot on things of high value. (Whereas I thought it was a little idiotic—why buy the couches in the first place only to treat them like expensive, untouchable piggy banks?) It sounded like a “rich people” quirk, but it was puzzling that we weren’t so well-off, though the restriction of dust coverings was not applicable outside this sole room.

And even though I always had my two cents to give about this choice of theirs, I found myself smiling. It really was just like being back home—joys, frustrations, and all.

“Misha?” Still beside the doorway and barely conscious of the rumbling of the party beyond it, I froze. “You’re here? I thought you wouldn’t be coming home. Did something happen?”

I was caught off-guard by a voice that was somehow raucous and comforting, discordant yet familiar simultaneously. Glancing down at the one uncovered article of furniture—a bed with antiquated quilts and embroidery as if it came out of a senior living facility from decades ago—my mother peered through me with eyes that were like gray clouds in the sky, uncertain if they would pour just yet. My father was behind her with perhaps an even more perturbed expression, and they ushered me over with a few hand gestures.

Well, they wouldn’t have to tell me twice. I ran as if I were being chased.

But even with the VR system, it seemed incredulous to me that I would get to spend time with them.

And when I finally hugged them, feeling the warmth and steady heartbeats that were as crucial to me as fingerprints, I found myself sniffling. It really did seem like I was with them, and for a moment, I let myself forget this was all an illusion.

“I love you, M— Misha. I’m so glad to see you today for any reason. You’re the best surprise we could ever get,” my dad said choppily as he rubbed my back, sometimes struggling with his words and translations.

Despite the sanitary dialogue, I kept sobbing.

I didn’t think I could get luckier when it came to my parents—when it came to having people who would love me no matter what. Even if this scenario was fake, this thrill and acceptance were very real.

And while I was enveloped in that hug, strangled by my own feelings of wanting to be a better daughter by visiting more often, the two frames that had been softened by age melded into a single, much stronger body.

Soft tears escaping my closed eyes, I prolonged the embrace with a tight squeeze before backing away and wiping my face.

When my vision cleared, hazel eyes and black hair of a length between that of my parents’ long and buzz-cut styles filled my gaze, and it took me a moment to process…

Oh.

Why the fuck was everything moving so fast and leaving me behind tonight?

The simulation changed again, and the woman from earlier was now between my hands, stiff and awkward as if she was caught by surprise. The surroundings were back to the languid coldness of my dorm room, hardly decorated and about as dull as the edge of a worn knife, and we sat upon the hard futon in the back corner, the dull vibrations of party music so faint that even a yippy, sleeping animal would not have stirred.

“Sorry again,” I told her when my mind cleared. “It seems like all I have is stuff to apologize for today.” Through a faint sob, I laughed, trying to make her feel relaxed. It worked as her biceps became more pliant under my touch, and she smiled with me. “When did you get here?”

She made a soft noise. “I don’t think that’s the most important question.”

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?” Raising her arm, she headed straight for the top of my head, presumably to rub it, but she hesitated, retracting her hand an inch like she rethought the action altogether.

I glanced up at her fingers. “That’s fine, you know.”

With that sparkling grin again, though more somber this time, she let her hand descend upon my wiry, straight hair that was like strings of thin pencil lead that were long enough to be barely flexible but still not nearly the length I desired, making me almost frown. But I smiled when she gently stroked my head as if she were touching yarn of the finest quality, threading through the knots until she reached the bottom with each hand motion.

From this angle, she was like a husky: tough and strong on the outside but equally gentle and sweet when in her comfort zone.

And by contrast, I was about ready to purr like a tabby cat.

I continued, “But I’m okay. I just got to see my parents for the first time in a while, so I’m a little emotional. Nothing bad.”

I figured she would be puzzled, but she grinned. “I’m glad. I’m sure you’ll get to see them for real soon.”

“For real”? How would this system have any concept of fantasy and reality? I stiffened, wondering if the robots had grown too sentient or self-aware in programming dialogue like this.

To not arouse any suspicion—was I now a foreign entity, a target of antimalware?—I let my body fall lax and nodded. As I tightly embraced her once more and probably constricted her lungs, I mumbled into her shoulder, “I hope to see them lots more. I love them so much, even though they’re weirdos sometimes.” I backed away from her so that we could both breathe, asking, “You know, you’ve been so kind as to comfort me tonight, and I haven’t even asked your name.”

“It’s Bri.”

“Well, that’s a lovely name,” I said, vaguely flirting. I was about one slip of my inhibitions away from saying it would sound nice to moan, but I wasn’t going to come on too strong, even if there was no chance of it going poorly. I gave her my name and told her, “Bri, thank you for sitting with me.”

“Well, of course.” She placed her hands on each side of my face like she was holding either a vase or fish—depending on how hard she subsequently pressed my lips, though I hoped she would softly do so with her own. “I can’t let a cutie like you be sad on Christmas,” she said in her typical tone before her voice dropped to a raspy murmur, “and I can’t let myself be either.”

In this position, we were only a few inches away from each other, and although this was a simulation—although this situation was artificial—the pounding of my heart like the procession of a marching band was very much real.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Closing the gap between us, I placed a tentative kiss on her lips, barely enough to get the sensation of softness but not enough to provide more than a fleeting recollection for later. While I was certain she was surprised, she didn’t stiffen and instead attempted to press back, though I pulled away before she could do so. (On my part, that was about as dumb as missing a shot at a recycling bin that was an inch away.)

Did a kiss really feel that sweet, or had the VR’s artificial intelligence been trained on embellished erotica and the like? I never recalled enjoying this so much.

And would an AI have reacted so strangely with nervous stutters and fidgets that were so disjointed that only a glitched machine from the earlier part of the century could have replicated them?

Then again, AI was nowhere near where it was decades ago when it was making hentai with fucked up hands (well, it still did that, but in consolation, it could fuck up a lot more things now) and listening to voice commands all day…

Letting go with a slight flush, she went back to rubbing my head, and I closed my eyes, trying to keep myself from making sounds. Smelling the fresh scent of her detergent, I hid my face to cover the rouge that was surely now across my cheeks, and for a second, her hand stopped. Although I was turned away from her, something gentle and warm touched the back of my hair. She kissed the back of my head, didn’t she?

Squealing, I was met with a giggle that was more like a peppy grumble in pitch, and then there was the dead silence of: What the hell do we do next? Decisions were never my strong suit—or at least good ones.

“Hey,” I spoke up, recalling her strange aside from moments ago, “why exactly are you at this party?”

Only having to compete with the muffled music, I heard her swallow. It took her a second to respond, but I was more than content to remain in her lap. It was like laying on cloud nine.

“It’s my first Christmas in a while without my girlfriend.” And despite her subsequent sentence, she seemed calm and level-headed about the whole ordeal. “We’d been dating since our freshman year of high school, and we broke up over the summer because we grew apart. Nothing that awful, but it does feel a little lonely sometimes.”

“So did you come here to meet someone?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

There was no use in missing a chance when it was dangling in front of me like a tall person stealing and brandishing a book.

“Then, do you want to dance together? You never know; maybe I’m the one you were supposed to meet.”

Damn, I was getting bold. Who would have known that all it took for me to speak like this to a hot girl was putting on a headset (said every tech nerd ever)? I hoped she wouldn’t pull this simple joy out of reach solely to make a fool out of me.

“Hm? You mean it?” she asked, her arm halting once more like red octagons filled her vision, but the warning signs must have dissipated. “You make it sound like fate, and I think with you, it may be.”

She really knew how to make me swoon like she had lassoed the moon for me, but she did so with only words!

I had no reason to hesitate in pulling her up from the bed. Like a giddy schoolgirl, I held her hand, and when she was barely on her feet, I dragged her into the labyrinth of the party, the sound and light of the dorm bedroom lost to a sweet ballad that was in its dying notes.

A loud whoop resonated throughout the room when the song changed. Hundreds of red plastic cups clunked down or together like a mass toast, spilling alcohol all over the carpet and furniture as people abandoned their drinks like outdated trends. Though it took a while for me to make it out, the music was like the modern equivalent of the “Cupid Shuffle” or “Cha-Cha Slide” in that everyone—even those who were seemingly allergic to the dancefloor—spaced themselves like tacks on a calendar and proceeded to dance.

In a fit of stomps and claps, I was surprised the building could handle so many energetic people, and I joined the frenzy, keeping my grip on Bri’s hand. I already had poor coordination, and only halfway attempting the moves was its own kind of struggle.

But I wouldn’t have given this up, not even to become a millionaire (at least, if this were not a simulation).

Though our moves were clumsy, we both laughed so hard that even the song in the background couldn’t hide our joy. And while Bri had appeared a little despondent before when talking about her ex, she was now alight with happiness, shining as if each one of her teeth were part of a string of Christmas lights. Especially when we had the partnered dance with the clapping and kicking and whatnot at the end, she was indescribably vibrant and even seemed lighter on her feet as they made gentle taps on the oak part of the floor.

She really was gorgeous, but she was even more so without the lingering sense of isolation that hung in front of her like a smudged mirror.

And I was so distracted by her expression that I scarcely noticed that her tough ensemble from earlier had now morphed into the chivalrous wardrobe of a black suit and red bowtie, a simple button-down pinker than her cheeks from earlier beneath her jacket.

The jacket and pants had been fitted nicely to her body, showing off her curves while leaving enough for me to fantasize about, halfway driving me mad. And the whole spectacle was completed by a pair of dark loafers that made a distinct clicking noise while she danced rather than the likely thud (or following hole in the floor) that her boots would have created.

What else did she look good in? No clothes at all, maybe?

It might have been the fact that this was more physical activity than I had had since the semester started, but I felt riled up and warm again.

And it surely didn’t help that I was now sweaty because another slow song came on, which meant we would be closer, our bodies practically melding into each other like hot iron.

Did this VR have to be so realistic that it kept all the unwanted details and bodily functions? What was next? Throwing up or shitting from nervousness? Props to the creators for creating a mini torture machine, I guessed, but it was a little inconvenient.

I hoped Bri wouldn’t mind, and I supposed she didn’t as she swiftly grabbed my waist with one arm and rested the other on my shoulder. Taking the hint, I did the same, and we subsequently swayed to a waltz-y rhythm, grasping each other as if we were on the edge of a cliff. While it was a marked change in pace from before, this dance was far more intense, causing me to avert my eyes briefly.

I was so distracted for a while by Bri’s stunning appearance and my anxieties that I neglected to check if a similar transformation in attire had occurred to me, and of course, this VR left no stones unturned.

Although I veered towards more tomboyish fashion choices—girly, yes, but more feasible for me than strutting in stilettos at six in the morning—it was invigorating to be in a fluffy dress with a thick petticoat that extended to the tops of my knees, spinning with me as Bri directed our turns and steps. The fabric was primarily red and orange—almost like a flame but more artfully so—and glimmered from strips of velvet rather than cheap sequins that would have flung off, the collar a tantalizing v-neck that somehow fit my form well despite my small chest. With sleeves that puffed out at the ends like regal attire and extended to my elbows, I thought I was an idiot for not noticing this alteration before, especially as the wind of this tornado we spun graced the bare tops of my feet that were uncovered by black flats.

Bri guided us without words because they would have gone unheard, but I was plenty happy with her actions now as we beamed at each other. Still, I longed for something more.

As if the DJ had made a mistake, there was a wisp of silence between songs. Only the swishes of drinks and muffled voices peeked through this gap. The ballad left Bri and me with our bodies nearly soldered into one; the fabrics of our clothes were practically sewn together like strings of handkerchiefs at a circus. If she would oblige, I desired to become even closer to her.

So I asked, “Do you want to go back to my room from earlier?”

I didn’t even consider that it might have moved to a new doorway or flat-out disappeared, but hey, logistical concerns were for after I got confirmation—act now, think later. Plus, if this simulation would bend to my wishes, this whole scenario would work out. Somehow. This stupid machine wasn’t going to cog-block me.

She stepped back and jokingly bowed. “If that’s what you want, milady.”

I pushed her lightly. “Ugh, corny.” Again.

But I couldn’t ignore the fact my body was burning and now ached for her touch, the floodgates of sensation now opening as the room around me spun as if by intoxication.