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"I can't help it," he said. "I've stopped drinking the water too."

Emilia felt the words land like a stone in still water. "I can't help it," he said

She looked at his face. Memorized the shape of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his brow. She thought of a life without him — a quiet, safe, gray existence. And she knew she'd rather die feeling everything than live feeling nothing. Memorized the shape of his jaw, the way

"We run," he said. "Now. The Outlands. It's a chance." "We run," he said

But they met anyway. In forgotten corridors. In the gaps between shifts. They wrote each other notes hidden inside returned data reels. Their love grew not despite the danger, but because of it — every touch a defiance, every whispered word a small revolution.

"Don't," she whispered.

One evening, alone in the archive basement, he read her a line from Neruda: "I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where."