"Kiyo..."
The soft voice beside me interrupts the constant flow of thoughts that shouldn't exist in someone my age.
A hand wraps around mine.
Warm.
"Why don't you go play with those kids?"
Uh...
I guess I stared a little too long.
The children run in front of me.
They push each other.
They laugh.
There's no calculation in their movements.
No hidden intent.
Just... action.
Instinct.
The correct choice would be to go play with them.
That's what a normal child would do.
...
Aiko—
or rather,
Mom—
deserves that.
My eyes drift slightly toward her.
Her smile is soft.
Genuine.
Fragile.
I almost feel pity.
Not for myself.
For her.
For everything she's losing... just by having me.
I take a step.
Then another.
But not toward the children.
We pass them by.
She doesn't say anything.
But I can feel it.
That slight shift in her expression...
that micro-tension in her eyes she carefully hides.
I register it.
I store it.
I ignore it.
We enter a shop.
The air changes.
Denser.
Contained.
Easier.
There's no chaos here.
Only exchange.
"One bag of bread, please."
The elderly woman behind the counter nods slowly.
Her gaze settles on me.
It lingers.
"Is this your son? He's so cute..."
Her face wrinkles into a smile.
...
Cute.
A superficial concept.
Useful.
But irrelevant.
"Right? He's my little Kiyotaka."
My mother pulls me gently against her leg.
The contact is firm.
Protective.
Almost... necessary.
The woman hums softly.
Her hand lowers onto my head.
Rough.
Shaky.
Real.
"I have a granddaughter his age... maybe they should meet."
...
What should I say here?
Anything would be a waste of time...
And I don't really want to go...
Before I can decide—
"Juli, come here for a moment."
A girl appears from the back.
Loose hair.
Light steps.
Direct gaze.
No filters.
She stops in front of me.
She looks at me with genuine curiosity.
"Hi."
...
"Hi."
She smiles.
Too natural.
"Do you wanna come? I'm going to play outside with my friends!! I'm Juli!!"
"Uh... I... um... Kiyotaka..."
She grabs my hand without asking.
And pulls.
I'm about to pull away, but my eyes shift toward my mother—
that trace of hope in her eyes stops me.
Just enough force to move me.
"This is Kiyotaka!!!"
...
Exhausting...
I run at the same pace as them.
I make the same jokes.
The same gestures.
I try to imitate everything they do.
It shouldn't be difficult.
They're just children.
I can.
I should be able to.
"You're boring..."
"Are you sad or something?"
"Ugh... you're kinda weird..."
"I think he doesn't like us..."
Less than fifteen minutes later, I'm sitting on the edge of the street, near the shop where my mother is still talking.
Why does this feel so heavy...?
I should be happy.
I solved the problem of wasting the whole day doing that meaningless activity.
I could use this time to explore the city for the first time.
...
...
I don't really feel like it.
Nor do I need to.
It doesn't matter here.
There are no goals.
No expectations placed on me.
I can simply do whatever I want.
This is what I always wanted.
That ordinary life I dreamed of.
These are things that happen.
This is what being human is, right?
I have to try again.
I owe that to Mom.
It may not seem like it, but—
I'm grateful to her.
...
I want to see that thing I've heard so many people talk about—
maternal love.
The desire to meet expectations.
To feel someone's pride.
Pride... in me.
Even if I can't feel anything from it—
it's still a good objective in this peaceful life.
At least while I live like this,
I can spend my time on that... right?
...
...
...
A soft hand rests on my head.
...
...
"I'm sorry..."
The words slip out of my mouth as I curse myself internally.
Why?
This childish body makes me more sensitive... more impulsive...
"Why, love...?"
Her voice is soft, slow, affectionate, as her fingers run through my hair.
...
"I couldn't make friends like you wanted..."
...
"My love..."
Her voice softens even more.
"There's nothing to apologize for... I know you tried... it's their loss."
Her words should carry weight.
They should create something.
Relief.
Comfort.
Warmth.
...
They don't.
Or maybe—
they do.
But not in the right way.
My chest feels... uncomfortable.
Heavier.
Harder to ignore.
...
It's their loss?
No.
It's me.
It's always been me.
I've spent my entire life missing out on these things.
Did I really try...?
...
It's not the first time I've attempted this.
But...
I don't have another method.
Since the first time I read about concepts like friendship, love, and ordinary life—
Observe.
Analyze.
Imitate.
It's a simple process.
Reduce human behavior into patterns.
Reproduce them.
That's what I am.
...
I've done it hundreds of times.
But...
in this life, it's been harder.
...
I close my eyes for a moment.
I remember.
Their looks.
The awkward pauses.
The way their voices changed.
The rejection.
No—
it was something worse.
Disconnection.
As if, without being able to explain it,
they understood something didn't fit.
That something—
...
...
I can't do that.
Everything in me goes through a filter.
Everything is observed.
Corrected.
Adjusted.
...
Artificial.
An artificial genius.
An artificial person.
An artificial human.
Kiyotaka... doesn't exist.
—
Then the conclusion is inevitable.
—
I will never be like them.
My mother's eyes remain on me.
I can feel it.
It's not evaluation.
It's not judgment.
It's... something else.
Something I don't fully understand.
But that—
...
...
...because—
I don't deserve it.
—
She believes I tried.
That I did everything I could.
...
But that's not true.
If I really wanted to—
I could do better.
I could adjust more.
Smile.
I can smile.
I can...
I could become something more convincing.
So then—
what am I really trying to do?
Make friends?
Meet her expectations?
Or simply...
prove to myself that I can be human?
—---------------------------------------------------------------------
For a time...
when I finally managed to leave that place—
I thought I had a goal.
Something... simpler.
Simpler than my desire to be defeated.
...
I wanted something ordinary.
...
No.
...
I wanted something beneath ordinary.
Something so insignificant...
that it shouldn't have even been considered a goal.
A friend.
...
...
Irrelevant.
...
I'm aware of how absurd it is
for someone like me...
to reduce my existence to something so trivial.
And yet—
...
I didn't discard it.
...
Ike.
Sudou.
Yamauchi.
Ichinose.
Yukimura.
Sotomura.
Akito.
Hirata.
...
...
Why?
...
...
...
Not as an emotional question,
but as a structural inconsistency I cannot eliminate.
If my memory has always functioned as a perfect classification tool—
a system designed to preserve only what holds functional value—
then the persistence of these names is not a trivial error,
but a deviation in the very criteria by which I define "value."
That would imply that, at some point in the process,
I incorporated parameters that I do not recognize as my own.
And that is... problematic.
Because if there is something within me that operates outside the principles that define me,
then I am not what I believe myself to be.
I never was.
...
From the very beginning, everything I am has been constructed.
Not developed.
Not discovered.
Constructed.
Every gesture, every pause, every tone of voice I use in conversation...
are not spontaneous expressions, but reproductions.
Fragments assembled from patterns observed in others,
refined through repetition,
discarding anything that fails to produce the desired result.
Books.
People.
Interactions.
Everything was reference material.
There was never a "self" in the traditional sense.
Only a structure that learns to replicate what works.
Even what others would call personality...
is nothing more than a stable configuration of efficient behaviors.
...
If I remain silent, it is because it maximizes the information I receive.
If I appear interested, it is because it facilitates cooperation.
...
None of it is authentic.
But neither is it false.
...
...
And yet—
that implies something I had overlooked.
If everything in me is the result of observation and imitation,
then even this supposed "desire" to have a friend is no exception.
It is not a longing.
It is a replication.
A conclusion derived from prolonged exposure
to samples where that concept appears frequently enough
to be considered relevant.
Everyone has friends.
In every book.
Every story.
Every history.
Every biography.
...
But recognizing the pattern does not mean understanding it.
Only reproducing it.
...
That makes me... incomplete.
Not because I lack information,
but because I lack the original criterion that gives it meaning.
...
I am an interpreter without an author.
...
A collection of correct answers
to questions I never asked.
...
And yet—
I continue.
...
If I had to define it,
what I am resembles less a person
and more a puzzle.
Not a conventional one,
with a defined final image
and a limited number of pieces.
But something far more unstable.
An endless puzzle,
where each new piece not only fits into the existing structure,
but alters the shape of all the previous ones.
A system in constant reconfiguration,
where no final image exists,
because every attempt to complete it
redefines what "complete" even means.
...
There is no final goal.
Only iterations.
...
And in that process,
I have learned to optimize.
To eliminate redundant pieces.
To discard those that do not contribute
to the coherence of the whole.
...
Then—
these names...
should not be there.
They do not fit.
They do not optimize.
They do not stabilize.
...
And yet, I cannot remove them.
...
Which means that within this system I believed to be fully under control,
there exists at least one piece that does not obey the rules of the rest.
...
And if a piece cannot be removed
without compromising the structure—
then it is no longer an anomaly.
...
It is part of the core.
...
Which is impossible.
...
Because I do not have a core.
...
I never did.
...
...right?
If everything I am can be separated, piece by piece...
then nothing should remain.
Nothing should resist.
Nothing should persist on its own.
...
And yet—
this does not disappear.
...
I don't feel it.
Not really.
...
But I can't ignore it either.
...
Is it just residue?
Something left behind?
A poorly discarded habit?
A reaction that repeats
because it once... had meaning?
...
That would be the most logical answer.
...
Everything repeated enough times eventually remains.
Even if it no longer serves a purpose.
...
But then—
...
why can't I leave it behind?
...
...
Without hesitation.
Without looking back.
...
Then this—
...
shouldn't be any different.
...
And yet...
it is.
...
If I reduce everything that I am—
if I strip away what was learned, imitated, constructed—
...
there is no "self" left.
There never was.
...
Only something that keeps moving forward remains.
...
Not because it wants to.
Not because it makes sense.
...
But because stopping... was never an option I considered.
...
Moving forward is the only constant.
...
But moving forward...
is not a reason.
...
It's simply what happens
when there's nothing to stop it.
...
...
Then—
...
for the first time—
I can't move forward through this.
...
There is no better answer.
There is no more correct direction.
...
There is no way to resolve it.
...
...
Why do I live?
...
...
Not out of necessity.
That's already clear.
...
Not for a goal.
That already ended.
...
...
Then—
...
why do I keep going?
...
...
...
...
...
...
And that—
...
is new.
...
...
There was always a way to organize things.
To understand them.
To place them where they belonged.
...
But this...
doesn't fit.
...
It won't settle into place.
It won't be reduced.
...
...
It is... unknown.
...
...
And if there is something I cannot understand—
...
then it is the only thing I truly do not control.
...
...
And if I don't control it—
...
...
...
...
Then maybe—
...
it isn't something I should eliminate.
...
...
Not because it has value.
Not because it matters.
But because...
it's the only thing that doesn't disappear.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
Once again...
...
Sand.
...
Endless.
...
...
There is no horizon.
No limit.
No reference point to measure distance.
...
Only repetition.
...
And in the distance—
...
that light.
...
Always there.
Always the same.
...
Unreachable.
...
...
Once again...
...
The conclusion is immediate.
My eyes slowly adjust to the light of this place.
So strange.
So unique.
Worthy of something that cannot be reached.
...
No matter how much time passes outside.
No matter the context.
No matter the situation before this.
...
I always end up here.
...
Without exception.
...
My gaze moves slowly across the landscape.
"...It's been a long time, hasn't it... Ymir..." I murmur, almost to myself, as I turn.
...
Golden hair.
...
Dull.
Lifeless.
...
Her posture doesn't change.
Her expression doesn't change.
...
Her existence—
...
doesn't change.
"..."
Considering how many times I've been here—
...
there should be progress.
...
Some form of accumulated understanding.
A pattern.
A reaction.
A change.
...
There is nothing.
...
Every interaction with her begins and ends at the same point.
First, let's make one thing clear.
Why am I here?
What is the last thing I remember?
—----------------------
My posture doesn't change.
A perfect poker face as I stand beside Kenny, my bored eyes fixed on the wall while Rod walks next to Historia.
"Historia, let me explain it from here."
Footsteps echo through the stairs as Rod, accompanied by Historia, approaches Eren.
Eren's eyes shift from side to side, occasionally landing on my face and Historia's.
For a moment, I almost laugh when his eyes fill with determination.
"What's wrong? It's your first time here." His tone remains flat.
"But... it's normal for it to feel familiar."
He walks behind him, raising his hand—
but Historia stops him.
"F-father, aren't you going to explain it to Eren...?"
"Yes, I will. But first, I want to try something."
A reassuring smile forms on his face.
"All we have to do is touch him. Whatever happened here... it's buried deep within his memories."
"??? If we do that... will it help him remember?"
"This place must act as a trigger for his memories."
—------------------------------
"Kiyotaka-kun."
The sound of a cold voice, barely softened, reaches me. I turn my head and meet those sharp, fading crimson eyes.
Jet-black hair down to her neck, with a small, neat braid on the left side.
A slender figure.
Ideal, in my opinion.
Somehow, she seems to have noticed the direction of my thoughts, because a light jab to my side makes me flinch.
"Ouch... what was that for...?"
"Don't play dumb. You know why."
...
"...Sorry, Horik—"
A sharp look cuts me off.
"...sorry, Suzune."
Her expression softens slightly, and we begin walking side by side.
...
...
After a few minutes of silent walking, we reach a quiet area.
Without saying anything, I lean against the railing, leaving her behind me.
"So...? What was so important that you had to tell me... especially in the middle of vacation...?"
She says, her tone slightly uncertain, maintaining a cold front—but with a hint of embarrassment.
"..."
"Suzune."
I call her in my usual tone.
"I was planning to do this quietly, but..."
My eyes remain fixed on the clouds, uninterested.
"I think I've already done everything I could with you. You've really grown a lot, and now... I'm going to change classes."
"Eh... N-no... no..."
The shock reaches my ears slowly, accompanied by her breaking voice.
"W-why...? I—I... We're a team... w-we're friends..."
"No."
...
My answer is immediate.
Neutral.
...
"We never were. I needed someone I could use as cover to move around... then I became interested in your potential."
I don't take my eyes off the sky.
...
"So... that's it?"
...
Her voice drops.
Too low.
Faded.
...
"Is that all I was to you?"
...
...
"A tool... right?"
...
...
Correct.
That is the appropriate answer.
That is the truth.
...
...
"...But it's the right one."
...
Without a doubt.
...
Without hesitation.
...
And yet—
...
her voice trembles.
...
...
"Look at me... look me in the eyes, Kiyotaka..."
...
...
Why should I?
...
There is no need.
No benefit.
No functional reason to do so.
...
Go ahead.
...
Insult me.
Hate me.
...
Turn this into something simple.
Something you can use.
...
That would be... correct.
...
That would make everything easier.
...
...
And yet—
...
I turn around.
...
...
My eyes meet hers.
...
Red.
...
Unstable.
...
Bright.
...
...
Tears.
...
...
...
This doesn't fit.
...
Not with her.
Not like this.
...
Not even Kei reacted this way.
...
This is—
...
unexpected.
...
...
"Why are you like this...?"
...
Her voice barely holds together.
...
"...I don't know what happened to you in your life, but..."
...
She stops.
...
Breathes.
...
Fails.
...
"...you're not the robot you think you are..."
...
...
Incorrect.
...
That conclusion is flawed.
...
It is based on incomplete information.
...
"...you helped me... many times..."
...
...
"Not always in ways that benefited you..."
...
...
"Sometimes... it didn't even make sense..."
...
...
Error.
...
Everything I did had meaning.
...
It must have.
...
It always does.
...
"...so..."
...
She takes a step closer.
...
The distance disappears.
...
...
"...you're not that..."
...
"Liar..."
...
The word carries no strength.
...
It doesn't need to.
...
It reaches me anyway.
...
"...do you really think you're empty...?"
...
Silence.
...
"...you're wrong..."
...
Incorrect.
...
...
"because..."
...
Her voice breaks again.
...
But she doesn't stop.
...
"...your eyes..."
...
...
"...to me..."
...
...
"...they've always looked full of sadness..."
...
...
...
"No."
My answer comes out immediately, but I steady myself just as quickly.
"You're free to think whatever you want. It won't change anything, Suzune."
"...that's a lie."
...
...
"...I always see you..."
...
...
"...lost in your thoughts..."
...
...
"...like you're somewhere else..."
...
...
"...standing..."
...
...
"...alone..."
...
...
"...like it hurts for you to be there..."
...
...
...
...
...
...
Everything is incorrect.
...
There is no pain.
There is no loneliness.
There is no—
...
...
...
...
Her hands tighten.
Slowly—
arms wrap around me.
My shoulders tense.
Not out of rejection.
Not out of discomfort.
...
...
...
"Please..."
...
...
"...I don't want you to leave..."
...
...
...
"Let me... prove this to you..."
....
----------
Ufff... Kiyokasu here again!!! Well... I'll try to upload the next chapter as soon as possible, but I can't promise anything—unless I actually feel the energy and motivation.
I already have the ideas for the next 15 chapters written out, but I still need to fully develop them, and my priority is university, so...
THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO'S STILL HERE!!! It honestly means a lot to me to see people who've been reading this since practically day one!!
Love you all!!!