Edward was sitting on a bench outside Milliways. Even as much as he might want to try to make himself relaxed, it's not as easy to slip back into. His posture is too rigid, too still for calm, fingers pressed just too much against his legs. Before him, where his affixed gaze, all too black eyed still, rested, is the Lake-Ocean, and the setting sun.
Behind him is the Bar, and his Door, leading back to Bella's bedroom.
Presently, he's trying to count to ten minutes without running back to make sure she's real. That all of this, every thought and image and assumption of reality is not a creation of insanity.