There she is: The girl. Her name is Asana, and she's gorgeous. Her hair is short, fluffy and brown. She's pale, slightly chubby and without a care in the world. Or at least, that's how she should theoretically be. Her normally dopey, lovable personality has been sent off kilter by a sense of creeping dread. She has this feeling, this horrendous feeling, like her very existence is being pushed from the very memory of the world prematurely. She remembers she loves Pokemon. She remembers she's autistic. She remembers she pissed herself at the talent show when she was five. She remembers that she's prone to nostalgia, but she's starting to realize that she can't remember anything to be nostalgic about. She looks up. She doesn't remember you. "Hi, do I know you...?" She asks shakily, forcing a weak smile.