What? I-- no. No, listen. I think-- I think it's like last time? I think she's. I think maybe I'm under a spell again? I don't think this is real, El. I don't think-- are you here?

[And Quentin stumbles forward, hand out and he brushes it over Eliot's cheek. There's stubble under his fingers and hair against the back of his hand, the scent of cinnamon and sugar all around them and he wants to gag.]

Maybe-- maybe this is all just in my head?