The sound of glass shattering echoed in my mind, sharp and jarring—a haunting auditory hallucination that felt all too real, despite no actual glass having been broken. It was as if that sound symbolized the shattering of my deepest desire: the wish to cease to exist. The weight of despair pressed down on me, and in that moment, I almost wanted to beg for release from this torment.
When Shanks spoke, his voice was laden with authority, deep and commanding, resonating with an intensity that made me want to curl up into a ball and hide. I felt exposed, vulnerable under the scrutiny of his gaze, my internal struggles laid bare before him. I recognized that my thoughts were dark, morbid, perhaps even extreme, but how was I supposed to navigate life when my own abilities haunted me?
The visions that plagued me had no clear origin; they emerged unbidden, twisting my perception of reality into something I could neither understand nor control. How was I supposed to continue living when every thought seemed to claw at the fragile edges of my sanity? The fear of my own mind was paralyzing, and I was left grappling with the question of how to move forward in a world where my abilities felt like both a gift and a curse.
Shanks gently grasped my chin, tilting my face upward so our eyes could meet. A flicker of concern crossed his features as he spoke, "You know, I hadn't intended for you to start learning observation haki just yet—especially not before your health had completely improved. But it seems my plans have shifted." He paused, searching my gaze for understanding. "If you can master your observation haki, you'll be able to embrace the future rather than fear it," he said, his tone calm yet encouraging. "Your ability to see beyond is more than just a skill; it seems to be a gift that has naturally awakened within you." He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in, but all I felt was a growing sense of confusion.
Health? What did he mean by that? Wasn't I perfectly healthy? Sure, I often found comfort in lazy afternoons, indulging in exceptionally long naps that stretched into the evening. I lacked the energy and motivation for anything strenuous, usually opting for relaxation over activity. But surely, that didn't mean I was sick, did it? A light frown danced across my brow as I tried to reconcile his observations with how I saw myself. There was something I couldn't quite grasp.
"Experiencing excessive low energy and a pervasive lack of motivation is not something that should be dismissed as normal. While it's perfectly okay to relish long naps, prefer quieter, less physically demanding activities, and occasionally seek solitude, your situation extends beyond these preferences. You may find yourself struggling to function in everyday life, which is a valid concern we unanimously decided not to interrogate you on. We've all learned to accommodate your unique quirks, just as you navigate around ours. However, the severity of your symptoms—like the debilitating panic attacks that leave you breathless, the troubling memory lapses, the continuous feeling of being disconnected from reality, and the overwhelming lack of desire to engage in any activity—should raise alarms." Shanks conveyed this message with pointed clarity, devoid of any unnecessary softness. His directness often left me to ponder whether I was the only one he chose to address in such a stern manner. With others, he exudes a lighthearted, goofy charm, an energy that makes him seem carefree and playful. In fact, Beckman humorously refers to Shanks as excessively high-maintenance, likening his attention span to that of a rock. In most of our interactions, a noticeable shift occurs; he sheds his usual playfulness and adopts a tone of sincerity that commands my attention. It's as if he wants me to grasp the weight of his emotions—his profound concern for my well-being and the depth of his protective instincts. This isn't merely a casual conversation for him; it's an earnest expression of his care and commitment to ensuring that I feel safe.
Most of the time, Shanks bursts into a room like a whirlwind, vibrant and full of energy, his laughter ringing like bells in the air. His chaotic spirit mirrors the tempestuous nature of stormy seas, where unpredictability reigns supreme. Yet, in my presence, there's a remarkable shift. When we sit together watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky, or when we lose ourselves in the pages of our favorite books, his demeanor transforms. The stories he shares unfold with a serene gentleness, each word wrapped in a soothing cadence, like an ocean breeze caressing the shore. These realizations make my heart ache with a sharp pain. I realize that I am different in his eyes; to him, I embody fragility, a delicate flower on the brink of withering that he oh so wishes to save. It's a dynamic that devastates me—a profound feeling of weakness and uselessness fills me.
Who was I trying to fool? The truth was, I felt utterly weak and useless. I was so inconsequential that even Shanks, with all his charisma and confidence, had to adjust his personality just to interact with me completely. It was as if my presence forced him to don a mask that softened his usual exuberance. I've always been sensitive to noise; crowded gatherings felt like a storm of chaos that I couldn't bear. To cope, I often resorted to wearing noise-canceling earmuffs, a small barrier against the overwhelming sounds of laughter and chatter. The only moment I'd dare to remove them was when everyone settled down, their collective attention turning to our little songstress as she sang. In those quiet moments, I felt a fleeting sense of belonging, as if her voice could make the world around us fade away into something beautiful and serene.
"Look at me!" Shanks called out, his voice slicing through the tumult of my thoughts like a sharp knife. His gaze was intense, so piercing that I felt it reach deep into my soul. "Do not doubt your place in my crew. We're family. Nothing will ever, I mean ever, change that." The weight of his words hung in the air, carrying an undeniable force.
There was an urgency in his tone that made my heart race, the possibility of disappointing him sending a chill down my spine. I gasped, the breath catching in my throat, as I felt a wave of tension wash over me. The very thought of him being upset filled me with an unsettling mixture of fear and resolve, intertwining like a storm within me. His fierce protective nature encouraged me, but the fear of letting him down loomed heavily over my mind.
"You belong," he said, his voice gentle as he noticed the way I flinched at his words. A look of tenderness crossed his face, and he continued. "I realize now that it was a mistake to leave you to navigate your recovery all on your own. You didn't deserve that. I'm sorry I neglected you." He paused, searching for the right words, his expression softening further. "So don't worry if progress feels slow; it's perfectly normal. The first step in this journey is to master your observation haki. With time and practice, I promise you'll find a proper sense of self."