Everything is white. The floor is white; the walls are white – no, that isn't quite true. You can't truly discern any walls around you at all. To either side of you, space simply stretches off into nothingness. You look down at you feet and notice that the ground constantly seems to be shifting, warping. Why is everything so...fluffy? You reach down to pick up some of the snow-like substance beneath you, but you are unable to grasp it. 'Clouds,' you finally realize. 'These are clouds.' Why are you able to stand on them, without falling through?
To your left (or is it your right?), a quiet figure emerges. Or had they been standing there all along? You normally considered yourself one to take careful stock of your surroundings. The man – woman? – is wearing plain sky-blue jeans and a hooded, zipped-up sweater. Upon her nose sits a pair of bright red spectacles, half hiding his serene brown eyes. No, how could you mistake the colour? They're clearly a comforting citron green. You blink. Heartfelt hazel? Sympathetic sapphire?
She smiles warmly at you. And out of all the things you could say, all you can stammer out is: "Dear god, what is up with those glasses?"
She laughs – a pleasant, melodic sound. "Do they like them? I've seen many humans wearing similar accessories. They give off such a sophisticated aura, don't you think?"
"Well," you remark. "I mean, some people have them, but..." You trail off. The last thing you want to do is insult her. "You know what? They look great." Then, your mind catches up with your mouth. "...Humans?"
The man smirks. "Contrary to popular opinion, I'm not exactly all-knowing. Thankfully, you're such a bad liar that I don't need to be."
You sputter. "What?"
She chuckles again. "Your emotions are written all over your face."
Well, your friends did always say that you tended to wear your heart on your sleeve. You tried to pay attention to your feelings; you hoped that such self-awareness would help you grow into a more empathetic person.
You shake your head, fingers pressed against the bridge of your nose. "Who are you?"
He rests his left hand underneath his chin, contemplating how to answer your question. "...Some have called me Fate," she murmurs, finally. "Others have named me their God. To be honest, I am not quite sure, myself."
"...God?" you question, disbelievingly.