She shook her head, desperate to dislodge the thoughts that were threatening to drive her mad. Antonin was in love with an illusion, the promise of the woman she could be. Just like so many pathetic women who had fantasies of "fixing" the men they loved, he still clung to the hope that he could love her enough to make her into the person he wished she would be. Millions, perhaps billions, of women since the beginning of the time failed in their quest to change their men. Loving the potential of a person was madness. While it was always possible that a person could become their best self, it was just as likely that they could become their worst self too. Antonin was in love with a fantasy, a fantasy that she wished she could give him. All she had to offer was her brokenness. Who would ever desire that?