Thinking is hard.

She knows, she knows that it's safe when her beloveds both sleep - that they can read nothing while they dream - but every thought is so relentlessly punished when the demon is awake, and the parts of her mind that generate thoughts have stopped trying. She focuses, when she can come up with anything worth focusing on, or just on breathing or clouds or a tree, as much as she can. The demon "hyperfocuses" on gentle thoughtless love, as much as he can. She sleeps too, as much as she can. And none of these solutions lead to her having thoughts.

There's not enough thinking left for her to register much horror about it. But there are parts of her remaining. Automatic reactions to things, that can pass from her memories through her actions without her intervening much at all on the level of consciousness. She has enough terror of oblivion in her not to look contemplatively at knives. She has enough of an echo of what it used to mean to her to love someone to ache inside if her beloved thinks of harming himself, to beg him not to. She has enough access to her own memories to recognize the strange door, the second time it presents itself to her, and to go in without fear, holding her book and her pen that she has no real reason to carry anymore but holds out of old affection the way a child slightly too old for a stuffed toy may clutch at it.

The blank book is no good to her anymore, but it feels good to hold it, and she does.

The door may not take her far enough away from her beloved to protect her if he wakes while she is there, but it is somewhere to go and sit and wait for her thousand-year span to elapse, and she enters.