I didn't expect to process my grief as a pig farting rainbows, but Split Fiction had other plans

[Editor's note: This story contains spoilers for Split Fiction. It also contains descriptions of terminal illness and grief.]

When my roommate Sarah suggested we try out the two-player game Split Fiction, I agreed at once. After all, it sounded like a game that was basically made for us. We’d met and bonded in college while getting creative writing degrees and we continued to share a love of all things nerdy. Going in, I just knew the basics: two writers get trapped in a simulation of their own stories and have to find a way out. One is the cynical and sarcastic Mio, who writes science fiction, while the other is the ever-cheerful Zoe, who writes fantasy. Basically your classic grumpy/sunshine duo. 

At first, the game was hilarious, weird, and clever. We turned into pigs who farted rainbows, played a game show against an evil computer, and had a dance battle with a sentient monkey (and that was just the beginning).  

But then, the first hints of real emotion started to sneak in. We learned that Mio’s dad was sick. 

No, not just sick. 

Dying.

When this not-so-little plot point was revealed, Sarah paused the game, put down her controller, and asked, “Do we need to stop?”