Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To have a thought there must be an object. A blank canvas with a dot in the middle. A wide field of green grass and the blue sky. 

To have a thought there must be an object, so you land a man there. 

A man in the meadow. A point on a plane. 

For something to exists it has to be proven. I think therefore I am. But just because you are doesn't mean he is. You put a man on a field and you think to yourself "I exist". Therefore he must now exists. "I think therefore I am" said the man. Now he's getting somewhere. 

For a thing to reach a place there must be a distance. You call the bed your destination and you arrive everyday. Being in the same spot gets you to the same place as going elsewhere. Making sense is boring. You know this. The man knows this. "I must be getting somewhere with my life." said the man. Said you.

For a thing to reach a place it better starts moving. So you get up and walks a little. The rate of change is equal to the sum of all instantaneous rate of change of all moment. You walk a little and the first question you ask was about how much did you make a distance. "I changed" said the man, standing still. For a point to have a distance it must drags itself across the plane. The moment you start asking you stop changing.

For a thing to reach a place there must be a distance. For you to reach a place you must walk on the ground. g is equals to 9.8 meter per second squared. When you measure a tiny amount of change in a tiny amount of time you get to see how fast did it change. So you ask the Earth how far down do you have left. The wind shushes in your ears. The man in the meadow reach down to kiss the ground. In one second you travel 5 meters. In two second you travel 19.6 meters. In 5 seconds you reach terminal velocity. To know how far down there is left you take half of one times 9.8 and square the time. When you reach the ground there wouldn't be half of one's left to answer the question.

To have a thought there must be an object, so you land a man there. A man in the meadow. A point on a plane. When you reach your destination you feel no pain. Alphys ponders carefully about these experiments on the edge of the cliff. 

Chapter Text

She's sitting right next to you, and you're sitting right next to her.

You're sitting next to each other on the park bench. The park resides in the middle of a busy city. Despite the never ending march of whatever it is from the outside, the sky seems to be as blue as the minutes before this moment, as blue as an hour before this moment, as blue as ever. This goes on for a while.

You're sitting next to each other on the park bench. Neither of you are exactly trying to separate from one another, like the other side of the country, neither there is a border between the two countries, neither is there a wall that separate between the countries. You look over the other side of the land and see if there's any more land or any less land between yours and the other side. You are a border guard and you look for a change between the the border, the border line for which you're now looking for while also looking for the change between the land in the first place. This is borderline psychotic.

The wind blows softly, as if the whole world is one home under one blue roof. Her hands touch gently on the edge. She has the hands of a woman whom spent a great deal of time proving her worth in the line of work few women would consider. As such the scars that are hard to miss, are hard to miss. Her knuckles, a scary thought for anyone who dare challenges her. Her fingers, the rivers. Her fingers, longingly blue. Your mind ponders.

Once upon a time there was the mountain, and there was the land. The mountain loved the land so much, its river nurtures the land. The land in turn gives a home for the creatures to live. The mountain, too, grew a forest alongside with the lands. Storm came, rains dropped. Water fell like waterfall. No one knew the act of love could be so violent. Water fell, met the trees. The trees greeted them, gave them company, gave them shelter for a short while, guided them back to the river. The water arrived at the land. Once upon a time there was the mountain, and there was the land. This went on for a long time.

Your mind ponders. Your mind, a river. You are a border guard, all you're looking at is her hand.

You're sitting next to each other on the park bench. And both of you haven't been saying anything for a while now. You're trying to choke down all the words that were meant to be said. All that words that stuck inside, between the silence and the future. You look at her hand. Then her eye, trying to meet gaze. She is turning away. You look at her hand and see that the land is trembling. You are trying not to tell her you love her. But you love her. You are trying to tell her you love her. But you can't. You're sitting next to each other on the park bench. She turns around trying to tell you something. Her hand raises, tries to grab your shoulder. You turns your gaze up trying to tell her something, you were trying to reach out to her. You don't know what you are doing. You reach out to her and your hands meet in between. She reaches out to you and your gaze meet in between. You feel like your heart taking root in your body, like a prayer for which no words exist, like you've discovered something you don't even have a name for.

You're sitting next to each other on the park bench. This has been going on for a while.

Chapter Text

The night sky is vast and wide. 

Sans has seen the pictures of the surface's sky. He has seen them in the tapes, he has watch the records, the documentaries, in the librarby, in the books he borrowed home, in the lab's own research center. 

He has been in Waterfall, back when they were still in the Underground. He knows how Waterfall looks, he knows it because it was the entire reason he setup a short range telescope. Near the glowing river. A star constellation inside a mountain. Shined and sparking by the light of the glowing blue of the same rivers that runs on the ground. A star system beamed with life by something Earthly, instead of a light show blessed down from the upward. 

It was beautiful then. It is beautiful now.

The night sky is vast and wide. 

Light travels at 3 hundred million meters per second. Someone who is 3 hundred million meters away from you will see that there's someone who is 3 hundred millions away from them seeing them. Light travels at a constant speed. Someone shouts to each other on the plain field and it takes them a few seconds to reach each other. All seeing is seeing in the past. All doing is doing in the past. When Sans looks at the sky he can't help but seeing a dying thing. Grasp for it, reach out for it, put your hand on the sky. Their light seep through the fingers, laying playfully onto his face. Their existence wash over him, like a kiss from light years away. Hello, goodbye, I miss you, come back to me even though we never met cause you're made of the same sweet stuff as us, baby. Someone said that we're all star dusts. When a monster die they got to choose to be with something they love, their dusts spread onto the the object of chosen. A kiss of someone who was, now will be there for eternity. The rest, not so much, they return to the stars. We live in every moments and yet it took us all our lifetimes to find each other. 

The night sky is vast and wide. 

The theory of everything: something wiggles that gives shape to you. The theory of time: everything dies. Einstein said that time is relative to the observer. Time moves slower to someone who is accelerating. Sans is too lazy so he moves space into his position and being faster than light. When you dream your eyes' movement become faster. When he dreams he sees everyone dies. For someone who remembers everything, memory is a tools. For a thing to exists it has to be proven. For a tree to fall in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? For a dream to becomes reality should you feel proud of yourself or should you watch everything die. The theory of time: everything dies. This is a speculation. 

The theory of everything: Something wiggles that gives shape into things. A thing and a thing and a thing that held together still. Nothing really touches each other, you feel the sensation in your sensory when you hold the thing in your hand. The last hand he ever held was of his brother. The last time someone gives him warmth was a woman who lived for centuries. All seeing is seeing into the past. All doing is doing in the past. All thinking leads him back to things that should not exists but he remember stills. 

The night sky is vast and wide. 

He read somewhere in a book that you shouldn't live in the past. And that someone spent their lifetime tried to explain something incommunicable. 

Chapter Text

Let me tell you a story about love.

A skeleton walks into the bar and says to the bartender: "i'll have the usual." The bartender pauses for a few seconds then go to the door on the back. He comes back shortly with a bowl and a piece of paper. "The usual" is on it. 

Let me tell you a story about love.

A skeleton walks into the bar and order a beer. The guy sitting next to him says "Can I ask you a question?". 

"you just asked." he says. 

"Can I ask you two questions?" 

"what question?" 

"This one. So can I ask you?" 

"you just asked again.". 

"Can I ask you many questions?" 

"why?"

"Cuz im curious!! And I don't know you!"

"i dont know man, i don't know you either. "

"Tell ya what, I'll buy you this drink, and you tell me about yourself. How bout that?"

"sounds good to me."

After the first beer they order for a mop.

Let me tell you a story about love.

The queen wakes up at exactly 7 AM, as like every other day. The table arrange neatly with 4 dishes. Golden flower tea, a dish with butterscotch pie. A slice of snail pie for herself. Two cups of juice and two dishes of butterscotch pie. One with an extra piece of chocolate, dark. She eats alone. 

The house could runs out of any type of food but never the pie, never chocolate.

Let me tell you a story about love.

The tall skeleton walks anxiously in the white snow, just outside the town. He mumbles to himself, repeating the lines, remember the facts. He checks on the puzzles pieces design meticulously for a human with average human height, facts from chapter 3, line 7, starting from words 40 to the rest of the page from the upward with references to page 491, footnotes 63, the book title: Human Biology Fundamental. Cross reference to "Advance Puzzles Design for Mad Scientists.", red marker, mark by himself with details into his notebook. He made sure everything works correctly just as how he designed. He has to be sure to do it right, it's the only way he knows that would make him popular and loved. He has to to sure. He has to.

Let me tell you a story about love.

The King wakes up at exactly 7 AM, as like every other day. The table arranged neatly with 4 dishes. A dish with a slice of snail pie. Golden flower tea, and a slice of butterscotch pie for himself. Two cups of juice and two dishes of butterscotch pie. One with an extra piece of chocolate, dark. He eats alone. 

The house could run out of any type of food but never the pie, never chocolate.

Chapter Text

There was a child who climbed the mountain alone. A kid in striped shirt. Of all the crazy shit in the world and a child climb a mountain alone looking for something. Of all the thing they can do and they chose to let the child go by themself. 

For a hammer, all things look like nails. When is a hammer not a hammer? When there's no nail left. "I must be the hammer, I can't not be the hammer." When you stop being a parent, all kids look like inconvenient.

There was a child who climbed the mountain alone. "This is it, this is the end." the child thought. The afternoon sunlight shone its dying light of the day onto the blue canvas. Brush strokes of orange and violet etch on the cloud banks.

What is a child?  A nail that begs.

Chapter Text

A child climbed the mountain alone. A kid in striped shirt. Of all the crazy shit in the world and a child climb a mountain alone looking for something. Of all the thing they can do and they chose to let the child go by themself. 

The afternoon sunlight on the cloud banks. A child on the top of the mountain. A child with a thought bigger than their head could bear. A child looking at the sky and see the past. All seeing is seeing in the past. This is speculation. When you look at something it changes to something else. When you look at something you see what already happened. When the child climb the mountain with the image of a dead thing in mind.

The afternoon sunlight on the cloud banks. The kid on the cliff. The light reflects. Everything blends together on the landscape. The eyeballs eat the sky, turn it upside down and make an image. The mind and the sky separates from each other by a thin line. Some says that the body is a mirror. Some says is a movie. You see something and in turn you get a story. A mind that lives inside a mind. A bird up on the yellow canvas with nothing holding it. A man on a meadow. A kid on a cliff. When you start imagine something it quickly becomes something else. When you get away to be alone it quickly gets crowded. A thought bigger than your head could tolerate. All day and night the man whispers. "This is it, this is the end." There are two men on the meadow. There are three men on the meadow. More men come. All day and night they won't stop whispering. The life of a mind is a fallacy of the lights and the body. You see upward, an end. You see downward, an end. Everything eats everything. You reach down to your throat and try to grab your heart, throw it to the ground. The bloods don't change the outcome. A smudge of red on the golden canvas. A pool of blood on the golden flower bed. What's the difference? You reach downward. Up, up and away.

This is the same story. There is no other end.

Chapter Text

This is the ritual. This is every morning. This is the pathway that once the only thing that separate between them an freedom. A tall skeleton takes a hike to this open way every day. The perfect view, the East side. When he first sees the Sun, he exclaimed to his brother that it was nice to finally meet it. Like a long old friend whom he knows for a long time but never got to meet. This is the ritual. He takes a hike at five, says hi to the sun. Before all else.

He works as a waiter at a restaurant. A tough job for a newcomer, even more so for someone who is completely new around people. The restaurant is Mexico themed, with a stylish skull on the wall that grows flowers around itself. The skull itself also has flowers, on its face. A sunflower on its eyes. The tall skeleton has always wonder if the place is run by this skeleton, he admires the style. 

There are casuals. A family of 6, two twins couple. Daniel, Jose, Juan, Mateo, and two girls, Zaneta, Ula. They all comes together on Saturday. The boy Daniel always get to the door first, then Jose, then Ula, then the rest of them. Mateo and Zaneta always come in together. Juan hides behind his mother most of the time. Ula loves the feeling of the skeleton's bald head. Sometimes, when it's late, when they are still around, he lets the girl put make up on him. There's the elderly man who always come alone. He carries a picture with him. Whenever he orders he always orders for two. His table is near the left side corner of the restaurant, near the windows. He can't see well. He often pretends to not hear well for the tall skeleton to lean closer. Then he gives him a kiss on the forehead and call him Papy. He loves tea. There are many casuals, he can't remember all of their names.

He and his brother take a small walk to the plain nearby and lie down the grass. This is the ritual. They lie down the grass and watch the night sky. "BROTHER, WHAT ARE THOSE SPARKLING DUSTS ON THE SKY?" the question he asked his brother on the first night. "those are stars bro." Sans replied. When he first saw the stars, he exclaimed to his brother that it was nice to be finally meeting them. Like they are long old friends whom he knows for a long time but never got to meet. 

This is the ritual. This is every morning. This is the pathway that once the only thing that separate between them an freedom. The tall skeleton takes a hike to this open way every day. The perfect view, the East side. But the sun doesn't come out today. He takes a hike at five, and stand there for very long, waiting for the sun. At home, he ask his brother, where is the Sun. His brother can't answer the question, not in a way that matter. Not his fault. He says that he heard on the TV, they said it will come out eventually, maybe tomorrow. "THEY ALREADY SAID THAT YESTERDAY." "i'm sorry man, i have no idea either." The sky is cloudy. It weeps. The elderly man doesn't show up that week. The tall skeleton asks his colleagues. They can't answer the question, not in a way that matter. Not their fault. The sky is cloudy. It weeps for the rest of the week. It keeps weeping still. 

This was the ritual. This was what they do every night, reading in bed. The tall skeleton always loved it when his brother talks about the stars. They have many rituals, in case one of the usual one doesn't work out. That night, he asks his brother. He tells his brother of old people he befriends with, at the park, at the workplace. After a while, they stop coming. That night, he asks his brother where would people go, after death. 

This is the ritual. The tall skeleton takes a hike to this open way of the mountain every day. Today his brother joins him. 

"do you ever wonder why we both love the sun and the night sky so much?". 

The tall skeleton stays silent. 

The brother tells him a story, about someone he knew, how his last wishes was to be among the star. This was very long time ago, back when they haven't had freedom. So they took what's remaining of him, and spread them among the gems on the room with the most amount of gems. That was how the room had a small light shining upward, onto the ceiling. That was how it was called the wishing room. The brother tells him how that person wrote in his last letter how sunflowers always heading East, barely containing itself from seeing the sun again first thing in the day soon. How meteor showers are just our kind came down visiting us because they miss us. How we are all just stars with people names. How the light inside yourself carries on endlessly after death. How we are all just stars that forget we are stars. 

"i can't answer your question because i haven't gone to the place you asked me about. but... i would like to think of them as happily returned to where they once where, among the star."

The tall skeleton stays silent. All he could think of was how the in a particular afternoon, when the elderly man doze of on his chair. How the light danced on the edge of the picture frame, sitting on the opposite site of the table. All he could think of was how that man told the story of how he met the woman in the picture. How she loved that side of the windows. How the light carries on endlessly of those who remembers long after you where gone. And now the skeleton is gonna carries their lights inside himself too.

Chapter Text

You turn yourself, you walk away. You walk away until you reach a place. This happens quite a few times. You are starting to get used to it. You got used to it, maybe after the first time, maybe the second. You are the Queen, the Queen of a kingdom. The kingdom of Monster kind. You are a mother of two children. These are some titles. What makes a hammer a hammer? When it's on the table it stops being. What is a ghost? Something dead. What is a ghost? Something dead that doesn't know it's dead. When a ghost is around no one bothers to mention to it, about the fact, about the ghost. Mentioning something to itself makes all kind of blurriness. You turn yourself away, a sense of self. You turn yourself and walk away, a sense of superiority. A dead thing doesn't know it is dead. A dead thing knows that it's dead is alive. To be alive is to die the second time. For a hammer everything looks like nail. When you are a hammer you hit the table and say things like "Hitting the nail is weakness. Being a hammer is not about hitting nails." These are some thoughts. When you are a hammer all things look like nail. You turn yourself around and walk away, a sense of superiority. Everything casts a shadow. Yours is a long as the perpetrator.

Chapter Text

You know the list. You know the duty. You know what needs to be done. Your existence is neatly packed in boxes of thing. Shaped in order, categorized. You move from one to another, Monday to Sunday. This is rational. You are the king of a kingdom. The kingdom of Monsterkind. You do the work. You know the duty. A hammer failed to be a hammer stops being a hammer. A kingdom in chaos is a dead king. A king who failed to be a king is a dead king. 

When you pack things into boxes things start making sense. You know the label. You know the work. You put your worth into each day. Monday to Sunday. This is rational. A leaky thing is dangerous. There is a heart shaped hole on the box you carry around. There is a lot of thing-shaped hole in the box you carry around. A leaky thing is dangerous. It's like wearing your heart up your sleeves. It might as well just leaves one day, while you're not looking. A thought and a thought link together, a wet sad thing weep itself from Thursday to Saturday. A box in the corner calls for your name. You count the number. You turn around. A row of them look much of the same. Your nightmare. You say all this because you want to fix them. You says the wrong thoughts to the wrong person. You have a box to put the label of the boxes. Each time you write down you say thing like "Nice day today!" You might be doing all this the wrong way.

Chapter Text

A child climbed the mountain alone. Then came the second one. The third one. The forth one. So on. Then you, which is another child in striped shirt, climbing the mountain, alone. And they keep falling down. 

This is your story. A kid in striped shirt. You are Frisk.

Some says the world will end in fire. Some says in ice. When you came, the world has already ended. Light touch down from the sky as if it wanted an answer. The ground spoke its answer out from the gaping hole: A deafening yellow. This is the old story. You may have heard it somewhere. A child once came down here looking for something. Light touch down from the sky. The inside and the outside separate from each other by a fallacy of the light. This is the same old story. Someone came down on this flower bed. Someone now forever stays here. You came down on this flower bed. You pushed forward as if you already knew your end.

Here lies a place called the Ruin. A ruin of something that used to be here. A kingdom. A family. A child. A life. You watch your step. You view your option. You keep things to yourself. You say them quietly. Something used to be here but you can't quite make out of it. Something used to be inside you now you try to seek outward for it. You seek outward, an end. You seek inward, an end. Some says the world will end in fire. You face the fire. An old story that already written itself. You will die if you don't listen to what I said. You consider the words. You view your option. Can't kill a ghost. Can't kill a shadow. Can't kill a dream. Someone couldn't bury her past and she's starting to scream. This is the same old story. The echoes in the hallway told you this.

Chapter Text

The first tape you watch doesn't have any colour. A world of black and white, a time before you could deduce the blurriness between where you stand, and where you look up to. The tape was hand recorded. How it was noon. How the cameraman runs after the woman in white dress. You can't see the yellow but you can see the light. The light tangled between the shyness and the fluffy ears as the cameraman zoom in up close. And each time she called you get flustered. The blurriness of being a viewer and the participant. 

The second tape you watch, there were kids. The two figures tumbled themselves around the grassy plain. How the light was artificial but the smile weren't. How they introduce themselves to you because time moves forward and people learn to speak with their heart open. "Torey", said Gorey. "Gorey", said Torey. "Ew!" said the kids. "Aww" said everyone else. Said you. The cameraman sometimes peak himself out to the frame and nibble himself on the woman's neck. The approximation of true desire. You've seen the tape. You've watch them all. You turn your back on the past. You indulge on other people's history. You want to be them. You want to turn the camera on and zoom in and in each corner of their little moment you see light seeing through. It's disgusting, what you doing. The blurriness of wanting and self-deprecate. How you want to be love like being eaten alive yet you fear touch. How you want someone to care for you yet the more thought of closeness turn your stomach. You close the tape. You put them off. You get them on next day. You remind yourself. What you do doesn't make any sense but you do it anyway. Living in the worst part, ruining yourself. You tried crawling to the light, a mess of yellow. The life of the mind is a fallacy of the light and the body. A smudge on the canvas is a mistake.

Chapter Text

You remember the last time you woke up to. It was dark and yellow. A strange combination of words to describe a landscape. You woke up to a row of flowers. How you can smell the darkness in the air. The taste of dust even though the door were sealed shut. How you called for help and no one came. Each shout was a faint echo calling you back. You reach out for your hands, you don't have a hand. You reach out for the table, you don't have a leg. You reach out to make sense of the world and you met yourself. Something yellow in the dark. A smudge on a blank canvas of blackness. A sad wet thing can't make sense of what it is and couldn't understand what it has become.

You remember the last time you saw your friend. How it was a Tuesday. They wore a striped shirt with a label called Tuesday. They had a row of striped shirt of each day every day. They prefer to put their left hand through first. Chocolate bar before starting breakfast. Left corner before the right. Smile on the wrong side of weirdness. They were talking to you, how they liked the number nine, because nothing can go higher than that. How the top of the mountain should be climbed on nine o' clock of in the morning. How they remembered the last time they were on top of the mountain before coming down. Why did they come here, you ask. "I was looking for something" they answered. You kept asking. They kept answering. Seven ate nine. They were looking for seven. How seven day ate our lives from nine to five. How they were looking for seven to freed nine. How they saw the end of the journey. The sky met the eyes. The life of the mind is a fallacy of the light and the body. How they reached out to saved nine but instead they got swallowed. You didn't understand. Your friend laughed. They kept laughing. You remember them keep laughing.

You remember the last time you saw your father. You remember a lot of time you saw your father. You remember him as a man forged by sunlight itself. Larger than life. Nicer than anyone else. You remember the last time you reached out for him to help. He couldn't understand. You couldn't understand. You remember him tried to help. You remember it didn't help. You remember wanting to kill your father.

You remember the last time you saw your mother. You remember a lot of time you saw your mother. You remember her as a compassionate woman. Easy to forgive. Easy to bear your pain. You remember the last time you reach out for her to help. She couldn't understand either. She tried to help. You remember it didn't help. You remember wanting to kill your mother.

You tried explaining. You tried pleading. You tried calling for help. She tried to help. The scientist tried to help. Everyone tried to help. You remember nothing help. You remember wanting to kill your mother. You remember wanting to kill everyone. You remember killing. You remember killing yourself. You remember waking up. You died. You raised. You wander. What is a memory? A body. What is a memory? A mind. What is a memory? Dust on the picture. Dust on the frame. The mind, the picture. The body, the frame. You see something, you turn it into a story. See a memory changes the memory. All looking is looking in the past. This has been a very old story. You threw your head up to the sky and hoped it would fly. A black bird on the boiling canvas with nothing to hold. Your friend once told you this. The light and the body. The fallacy. The swallow. The slaughter. The end. You reached downward to the boiling canvas. You woke up to a landscape of dark and yellow.

You remember the afternoon. You looked up to the sky with a thought larger than your head could bear. A man on a meadow. Men on the meadow. "This is it, idiot. You jeopardized our plans. This is the same old story. The entire reason why I climbed. We get to die here at the gutter of where I started without nothing else to help, idiot. It's straight up kill or be killed out there, idiot." All day and night the men keeps whispering. You thought about this. You remembering this. Spears on your back. A canvas of marigold and violet. The eyeballs that eat the sky. The story that ate the life. A canvas of stillness with story that keeps referring back to itself.

You remembered everything but who you once were. The duty that kept beating us down who we all could be. Seven ate nine. Seven ate nine. Seven ate nine. 

Chapter Text

The dripstone. The water drops. The black cave. The darkness. The echoes. The landscape. The floating stones. The running water. The black landscape. The blue colour. The emptiness.

The young monster.

A very young Undyne found herself on the playground, asking to play football with the boy monsters. The biggest of them, stood out and said "GIRLS AREN'T ALLOWED". The boys behind cheered. She kicked him in the balls, evening the score. He collapsed. The boys ran. There were no balls left to kick. There were no boys left to play with. 

A very young Undyne found herself in a girls club. She asked them to play. She loathed the ideas of dressing up dolls in the way they seemed to all agreed on without her. But she loved the idea of getting them to fight with each other. Jessica the Destroyer in the left corner of the pink mansion. with her dress torn up and the torn up piece became the new bandana. Jessica's opponent, Stacy the Blonde Bitch, with the left arm she borrowed from Mr. Jones the butler from the same mansion. Jessica had one big arm one small arm. Mr. Jones had one left arm and on arm up his butt, in the pink mansion. They all have their smile on their faces as the young fish got them into the battleground, which is the mansion, which is the table in the living room. 

The girls didn't like the battle. The popular one really didn't like what the young fish did to Jessica the Destroyer, who was original Jessica the Princess of Love. A tug of war. A struggle. A head in the sky and a leg someone's arm. There were no balls to kicks.  There were no dolls left to play. There were no girls left would talk to her. There were no one left. 

The black landscape. The blue water. A running river with no start nor end. A glowing water. A blue lotus. 

A small Undyne sat by the river alone. The way her face reflected on the water reminded her of a face she never met. The face of a stranger, blurry, vague, smeary. The way her face reflected on the water told her something she couldn't made out of words. The way she reached her hands down to the river to catch that face, to hold it up to her head to hear the words. The way the hands tried to hold up a river but the water kept slipping away. 

"Who are you?" she asked. 

The river flows.

"Who am I..."

The water drops.

She put her hand down the river. And then half of her legs. Then her whole sadness, hoping it would go away. The blue waters glowed a gentle song. The young fish came to the river to throw her sadness away.

But she's still left with her hands. 

Chapter Text

You ask her about her childhood. She starts chuckling. "I wrote letters for my parents, every once in a while, telling them how I was doing." 

You ask her about their reaction. "Oh, I never knew who they are. They died before I even opened my eyes.". "Most of them were just silly child thing, honestly." she said

You ask her about some of them. " Okay so there was this one. Back then I remember football was pretty popular among us, because for some reasons one of them found a ball in the dumpster near the river. But only boys where playing them. And they were fucking stingy with their circle of friends. But damn if I was gonna let that stop me. So I asked them to play. And surprise surprise, they didn't let me play."

"I think I wrote something like.... 'dear mom and dad today they found a ball that dropped from the sky and they were playing and i wanna play but they don't let me play so i kick them in the legs and the crouch because they didnt let me play because they are stingy i hate them i took their ball but no one play with me anymore'. Something something like that ahahaah. I didn't even use comma or anything, it was just a really long sentence I scribbled on the paper." 

She bursts out laughing. Her face beams under sunset. 

"It was actually Gerson who encouraged me to write those letters. I loved writing them. Loved so much I write multiples one when I started out. Probably like, at least three a day. My desk filled with letters. Gerson's desk filled with letter. Eventually the wardrobe filled with letters instead of clothes."

The winds blow. The leaves fall. The park goes quiet. The normal rush of everyday life finally calms down. You look at her and her eye set afar to the horizon. Your hand touches hers. The scars feel as if it's your own. Her hand feels like a river you wished to throw your own sadness to. 

"Eventually, Gerson told me I should send those letters to them. I asked how, because of course uh... how could I send those to them. And he told me about where a monster gone after they gone. He told me about garden, which is inside a kingdom, which was from the opposite of the living. He told me about the soul and the body of monsters may vanish, but their essences linger, their existence affirmed, their places.... somewhere. He told me about an ancient ritual on one's own birthday, if the bond of the deceased and the living was strong enough, or when the living really wish to contact the deceased. One could send something to the other side and they would receive it."

"None of us knew when I was born. So I ended up just send it everyday, of course. "

"The ritual was just as simple as putting a golden coin, a candle, and whatever you want to send on a little boat. And you sail it away."

"Silly Gerson, I love him with all my heart. But even back then... I only did it when he wasn't around. I never really believed it would be that easy. But still, I hoped. I hoped that one day, that would have been true, and one day they would send something back too..."

...

She asks you if you ever miss your parents. 

You tell her something about your own language. How the word for missing someone and remembering someone is the same word, "Nhớ". You tell her about how you grew up. About what you did, and what you didn't do. About what was expected and what you failed to uphold. You told her about the time your own mother asked you the same question. "Con có nhớ mẹ không?"

You tell her, you miss her more than you remember her. And you will have to remember her for longer than you have known her.

Chapter Text

To have a thought there must be an object. The sky divided. Dark blue, smear golden, silver clouds, orange clouds, fleeting blue, dying white. Above the head, the moon shines. At the edges of the horizon, the sun hides. 

To have a thought there must be an object. So the world lands you back on your feet to the world. Beside her.

You ask her about her upbringing. She tells you about the time where she fought the King just because she wanted to. She tells you she did them all by the book. Right hook, left hook. Knees kick. Jumping back. Crotch kick. Knees kick again. He tried to dodge at first and she couldn't hit him. He tried to stay still so that she could hit him so that she won't feel bad. At least that's what she thought he was trying to do. 

She tells you about how the first thing he said after all that was "Would you like a cup of tea?". How she sat down with him pretending she didn't enjoy the tea but it was good. It was boiling hot but good. He asked her where do she lives, even though he already knew. He asked her why did she come here. She never really answer. How she said she felt bad but she had to keep up the front. 

He asked her a lot of thing, but never she believed he would ask her to be the best of them.

You ask her about the rest of the story. She doesn't say a word. She leans into you.

The bright sky of millions glowing dust. The gentle breeze encourage the leaves to hold onto each other. 

The way she holds your arms like you are about to leave. The way she puts her head on your shoulder like you are about to leave. The way she holds onto your arms like how once she holds a boulder just to prove she is the strongest. The way she squeezes her pillows in her sleep fearing the boulder would drop. The way the scars run like a river. The way the radio aches a little tune into all directions, telling a story about what the night is thinking. It's thinking of love. It's thinking of freedom. It's thinking of stabbing ourselves to death and leave our bodies down at the bottom of the lake.

"I'm a fish holding on to a life buoy in the middle of the sea."

"..."

"Just for tonight, I don't want to prove anything."