Eren Yeager had always been a child. From birth to the day he died. He lived with a selfish, childish dream to find freedom. Yet, freedom was a manifestation of his innate desire to fill the boredom swallowing him whole. It killed him.
But before t...
that smile that you gave me even when you felt like dyin'
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Another day, another letter.
You told me the names of the birds today: Keigo was the one with sharp gold eyes, Cleo was the one with an eye shape that reminded you of the Egyptian Queen, Cleopatra, whom you recounted her tales to me. You told me all about the historical figure in the books your father tucked away in his study— you said you used to sneak in at night and read until you passed out from exhaustion. Your father would enter the room the next day and take you to your bedroom to sleep, berating you when you came down for food.
You laughed at those memories.
That smile didn't quite reach your eyes.
But you continued forward nonetheless.
You told me how you named a pair Bonnie and Clyde, after the couple you heard whispered stories about. You told me they were a sailor's tale— said that people who explored the other countries believed they roamed through the world and killed people for entertainment. I wondered what you thought of them, and so, I asked you why you named the birds after them. You said it was because they caused mayhem. I was confused; I didn't understand what you meant.
Albeit, I don't understand a lot of the things you say.
You explained that they, the birds, were in love. Like the human couple. I didn't even need to ask how you knew that. Something in me told me you just knew.
You have a way of simply understanding that I could only dream of comprehending.
Next, you told me about Starch. You said he enjoys eating potatoes.
I know someone who does, too.
Then there was Chicken, who likes to peck (rather rudely, you added) at people. You told me you debated whether you should name it 'Chicken' or 'Rooster', but after discovering its female genitals, you named it 'Chicken'. I'll admit that I flushed at the word. Can you blame me, though? I'm still a teenage boy at heart: Albeit, a teenage boy with blood-stained and bite-ridden hands.
I noticed I've been saying albeit a lot.
You say it, too.
You continued to tell about the rest of their names, but, honestly, they went in one ear and out the other. I was too focused on that smile on your face. The corner of your lips stretched across your cheeks and curled like a cat's. Yet, the twinkle in your eyes was barely there. They've been dimming. I wonder why. There's something in me that's pleading—begging—me to ask what's wrong. You talk and talk and talk and just fucking talk. Why won't you tell me what's really important? Why won't you confide in me?
I suppose— confiding in a stranger isn't safe.
You never know who you can trust.
I understand that feeling, too.
The last bird name I remember was Alexander. You said you named it after a boy who pissed you off in your younger years. This bird, apparently, pissed you off, too. Nonetheless, you treated it with the same kindness you treated everybody.
Very interesting. Or 'peculiar', as Armin would say. I miss him, you know? He's my best friend. I've said this many times, but I'd say it over and over again. If only to remember it. I've been forgetting things lately. I told you this— you said it was a result of trauma. Traumatised people tend to block out memories to cope with traumatic events.
I'll admit, I've seen my fair share of traumatic events. They've tainted my mind, my hands, my vision. Armin has seen traumatic events, too. Mikasa as well. I guess we're what you call 'three peas in a pod'.
Did you know that Mikasa is my sister? Step sister? I don't know, but my parents took her in when her parents died. And then they died.
That's not very helpful.
Sorry.
You'd scold me for being so blatantly nonchalant with death. But I can't help it. Death has been a companion in my life. A constant one. It follows me more like a ghost than a friend. It's always lurking in the back, and I know it's lurking ahead, too.
I've seen it.
And I really, really wish I didn't.
Sorry, ignore all that. It's not important.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. Armin and Mikasa. They're my best friends, and I miss them. Even Jean and his stupid presence, Sasha and her insatiable eating habits, Connie with his weird laugh (and his surprising ability to put up with that horse-face). I miss Historia; she's always been so kind. You'd like her, I'm sure. You're both very patient, but she has a temper when things don't go her way. Still a child, I guess.
I have a feeling you'd say she's just like me.
My temper hasn't always been the best— I've learnt to tone it down as the years roll by. Captain Levi made sure of it. I miss him and Hange, too. They've been with us for the past few years; it's like they raised us.
Parents.
When we no longer had any.
They guided us, and fed us, and made sure we weren't always getting ourselves into trouble. Levi...he's very strict. Especially about hygiene. You'd like him for sure.
He'd appreciate the way you wipe the bench before sitting on it, or how you always wash your hands before (and after) tearing into the bread and feeding the birds, or how you never touch them yet still seem to hold some fondness for them. Birds aren't the cleanest, you'd say. I think you're right.
You don't like dirty things.
Sweetheart, I'm not clear either.
So why do you touch me? Hold my hands, brush my hair, fix my bandages?
Why do you do all of that?
I'm not clean. I have the blood and lives of millions on my hands. They've permanently scarred my skin. It burns me inside and out. Why do you touch them gently? And bring them to your lips to kiss so tenderly?
It's so confusing.
You're so confusing.
You make my head spin. I don't understand.
How many times do you want me to fucking write it out? I don't fucking understand you. I don't understand what you're thinking— hell! I don't understand the words you say sometimes. So why? Why the fuck do you matter? Why the fuck can't I stop thinking about you and your stupid fucking smile and the way your voice sounds so fucking beautiful and the way you look so fucking beautiful when the blinding shit-star shines on your face and illuminates your crappy-coloured eyes in such a divine glow?
Why should I care about what you do in the morning or think about late at night? Why should I give a shit about who asked you out or who wants to court your attention?
I shouldn't.
I don't.
You have an answer for everything— you always fucking do. So answer me this:
