The tranquilly that enveloped the dorm in the weeks after Shinjiro's passing was delicate and fiercely earned. The atmosphere had shifted from the loud, frenzied vibe of earlier to a more subdued and intentional pace.
The quiet transformed from an oppressive weight into a dignified expanse, a place where sorrow could exist freely without overwhelming all it touched.
I noticed that my attention was drawn to Akihiko more than anyone else. He served as the measure for our shared healing.
This morning, he was at the gym. However, he no longer struck the heavy bag until it became an unrecognisable mass of leather as he once did.
He positioned himself in front of it, his gloved hands gently placed on its surface, his eyes shut tight. His chest moved up and down in a deliberate, steady rhythm.
He was… paying attention. Attuning to the echoes within his body, to the lingering cadence he once danced to with a companion.
I stood by the door, hesitant to break the silence. The presence inside me, always aware, sensed the change in the atmosphere surrounding him.
The overwhelming, sheer NOTHINGNESS had diminished. In its stead was an intricate, swirling mass of ideas: SORROW, indeed, but also RESOLVE, and a delicate, freshly formed RECONCILIATION.
It resembled the emergence of a celestial body from the remnants of the universe—intense, tumultuous, yet profoundly inventive.
Moments later, he blinked awake. They were no longer the empty voids of last week. They were exhausted, profoundly exhausted, yet still there. He noticed me and offered a brief, decisive nod.
"Tanaka."
"Sanada," I said, stepping away from the doorframe and entering the room. The scent of perspiration and aged leather felt known, a steady presence in our dynamic existence. "How's the wall?"
A fleeting smile, barely there, brushed against his lips before vanishing. "Remaining upright."
"I'm discovering how to appreciate the structure rather than just attempting to collide with it. He stretched his fingers, the leather of his gloves making a soft sound. "It's… more sluggish."
"Many things that endure are," I remarked, taking my place next to him. I glanced at the bag, then turned my gaze to him. "The unusual assignment… you performed well out there. Precise."
He remained silent for an extended period, his eyes unfocused. "It felt… unique. In the past, combat was centred around demonstrating a point. For me, for… him."
There was no need for him to mention Shinjiro's name. The burden of it lingered in the atmosphere surrounding us just the same. "At this moment…" He faded into silence, looking for the right expression.
"At this point, it's all about the battle," I concluded gently. "It doesn't demonstrate that."
He gazed at me, a spark of astonishment in his grey eyes. He nodded, albeit with a deliberate slowness. "Absolutely." That's all there is to it. He exhaled deeply and gradually. "The pain remains unchanged. It simply... the intention is distinct."
That was the essence of it. We were all discovering fresh meanings, new forms for our lives to adapt to now that a crucial element of our existence was missing.
As the day progressed, the change became apparent in the common room. Junpei was struggling to convey the storyline of a film to Yukari, his hands gesturing wildly.
"So, this dude just leaps off the building, but he's attached to this wire, you know? And it's just—whoosh! Kapow!" He mimed an elaborate, clumsy action sequence.
Yukari observed him, a subtle, playful grin appearing on her lips. It was an authentic smile, unlike the forced, courteous one she had been displaying for weeks. She tilted her head, a lock of hair cascading over her face. "Iori, that is utterly illogical. What's the point of being wired when he's got a jetpack?"
"Because it's cool!" Junpei exclaimed, raising his hands in frustration. "You've got to bring the flair, Yuka-tan!"
Seated on the couch, Makoto glanced away from his book. He remained silent.
He merely glanced at Junpei, then at Yukari, and the edge of his lips curled slightly in that barely noticeable grin of his.
Yukari noticed the gaze, and her smile grew broader, a subtle flush tinting her cheeks before she swiftly turned her eyes elsewhere.
I observed the interaction from the kitchen, a comforting sensation blossoming within me. The idea surrounding them was evident to me: a fragile, emerging LINK.
It was uncertain, brimming with the anxious excitement of an initial infatuation, yet it was genuine and lively. It was a burst of vibrancy against our dull backdrop.
Junpei was the one whose canvas remained largely grey. Once his dramatics subsided, he collapsed into an armchair, the artificial vigour seeping away from him like air escaping a deflated balloon.
He gazed downwards, his face blank and unresponsive. The idea surrounding him was a complex, distressing web of COMMITMENT and GRIEF. He was mourning for someone who was very much alive, a unique form of torment.
I approached and took a seat in the chair across from him. He kept his gaze down.
"How is she?" I enquired softly.
He shrugged, an empty, soulless motion. "The same. She looks at me like I'm… nobody. Merely an individual who frequents often." At last, he raised his head, and his eyes sparkled with the weight of unshed tears. "The medical professionals have indicated that her memory may not return." Ever." His voice trembled on the final word.
I did not provide him with baseless optimism. I allowed the silence to linger between us for a moment, a mutual recognition of the hurt we both felt. "How do you feel in her presence?" I enquired. "Beyond the pain."
He sat in silence, deep in thought. "I… I feel like I need to be there," he whispered. "It feels as though if I leave, she will be alone, and she has already experienced enough loneliness, you know?"
He glanced my way, and I could see in his eyes this deep, almost desperate need for me to understand where he was coming from. "You know, even though she might not have a clue who I am, I definitely know a thing or two about her.
"I mean, doesn't that actually mean something?"
"It counts for everything, Junpei," I said, my voice firm. "That's not a memory. That's a promise. You're keeping a promise to her, even if she can't remember making it. That's one of the bravest things I've ever seen."
He took a deep breath, feeling the lump in his throat as he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "Yeah… yeah, okay." He didn't seem all that happy, but it was clear that the heavy weight of despair had eased up, even if just a tiny bit. He definitely had a purpose, you know. It's definitely a tough and emotional journey, but there's still a reason behind it all, even if it hurts.
So, that evening, I ended up finding Mitsuru hanging out in the command room. She definitely wasn't going through any data or mapping out missions, that's for sure.
There she was, comfortably settled at her desk, with just one file folder laid open right in front of her, ready for whatever task was at hand.
What I came across was Shinjiro's personnel file. She found herself lost in thought, gazing at his photo, her face a complete mystery, revealing nothing of what was going on inside her mind.
I chose not to say anything. I strolled over and rested my hands on her shoulders, letting my thumbs softly work into the tight muscles at the back of her neck, trying to ease the tension there. She released a gentle, trembling sigh and relaxed into my touch, leaning back comfortably.
"He really couldn't stand paperwork," she remarked, her voice carrying a weight of sadness that seemed to linger just beneath the surface lately. "He always seemed to have a knack for coming up with some sort of excuse to be anywhere but around when it was time to deal with those reports."
I gave a small, subtle smile. "That definitely sounds like something he would say or do."
She stayed quiet for quite a while, her head comfortably resting against my stomach. "You know, I can't help but keep pondering what's ahead," she said softly. "This is how it's meant to look at this point."
"The plans we had, well, they all just kind of fell apart, didn't they? It's like we had this whole vision in mind, and then reality just swooped in and changed everything. It's a bit of a bummer, honestly." She waved her hand in a somewhat unclear manner, almost as if she was signalling something fading away.
I understood. The future was a map that had been torn, and we were all trying to figure out how to navigate with the pieces we had left.
"I think," I said slowly, choosing my words with care, "The future isn't something you see. It's something you build. Day by day. And we're building it right now." I leaned down, my lips close to her ear. "The architecture is just… different than we planned."
She turned her head, her crimson eyes looking up at me. The grief was still there, a deep, permanent pool, but I saw something else reflected in them now. Trust. Resolve. Love.
"Different," she repeated, reaching up to cover one of my hands with her own. Her fingers were cool. "But solid."
She stood then, turning to face me. She didn't hug me. She just stood there, her hands resting on my chest, her forehead pressed against mine.
We stood in the dim light of the command room, two pillars holding each other up, drawing strength from the simple, profound fact of the other's existence.
The world outside was still broken. Tartarus still loomed. The threat of the Fall was a ticking clock in the back of all our minds.
But in that quiet room, we were building our new normal, one painful, necessary, and beautiful piece at a time.
We were finding the shape of our tomorrows in the wreckage of our yesterdays.
And for now, that was enough.