The trees don't look clearer no matter how hard you focus your eyes. The sound of the park is both too loud and too muffled, and there's nothing you can do about either thing. Your desperate blinking fails to change the color of the sky to its familiar dirty gray; your right hand cannot summon knowledge nor your left hand doors.
You also fail to conceal from your parents your silent frustration. Just as they fail to conceal from you their obstinate goodwill. They believe this picnic is for your own good - you remind yourself of their intentions like a mantra of false, forced forgiveness. Each repetition is a shallow wave over the depths of your longing for the true world.
There's a dull pain in the soft weight of the VR goggles not pressing on your face. Your desperate fingers out of habit keep repeating the signs that should take you to the forest-library where you play with your friends you call (but only to yourself and in your bookmarks) home.