fugitive
The artist gave her an assignment but she couldn't take him up on it. Not yet, anyway.
She spoke to the one that she can't stop waiting for, the one that she knows will never come but still has some hope attached to. He needs a name but she doesn't know what to call him anymore. She no longer knows how to describe him using a word that's neutral, without judgment, but she wants to. She thus mulls this problem over in her mind until she finally settles on a possibility. As ridiculous as it sounds, she decides to think of him as the hologram given that she's had dreams and imaginary friends that were more real.
She reflects back upon those childhood imaginary friends, how supportive they were as they'd run races out back with the tumbleweeds. She'd sprint forward across the dry hard ground, catapulted by some kind of need to believe in herself, flanked by those friends. They'd urge her on, always at her heels, always letting her win. That's what she needed to feel like she could be somebody, to be empowered.
Her body's been heavy since her exchange with the hologram, weighted down with the lead of confusion and the fact that she's always looking over her shoulder to see if he's there. She's become a fugitive, one that's been on the run so long that it looks like she can relax but when it comes right down to it she can never be too sure that the law won't catch up with her.