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...
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You gave me a few books today.
You apologised for being so busy and explained that the books would help keep me company. You said I had this lonely look in my eyes, and I thought that it was very hypocritical of you to point it out.
You have the same fucking lonely look in your eyes, too, sweetheart.
Nevertheless, I accepted the books with gratitude. Mom always taught me how to be polite to people, especially those that gift others things they've poured endless thoughts into. She used to say that you never know what one did to acquire such gifts in a horrid place such as our home— and now, I can only wonder how you got these books. The leather cover sits comfortably in my hand, worn and crinkled, as if they have been opened and closed countless of times. My fingers trace over the spine, feeling every ridge and bump.
There are gold letters painted across the leather, joining together in the shape of a tree, branches of wisdom and sage leaves.
I read the books.
At least, I tried to.
I can't read your language. So why, out of the five books you gave me, were four of them written in Eldian, Paradise Island's national language? My veins bleed out all the words you've fed me, both verbally and physically. From the blank papers, I can make out the overall sentences, the overall meaning of the stories. But there are some words that are difficult for me to understand. Like when the writer is describing the past. He— she? I don't know. Either way, they use complicated words. They remind me of you. I wonder if that's how you learnt to speak so profoundly.
I can't read the big words. Dad taught biological phrases and shit— I used to think it was useless learning about humans. I remember sitting at the wooden table, Dad in front of me, explaining the pictures and words in front of me, and Mom standing by the sink, drying the chipped plates we had. I was bored out of my mind then. I wanted to get away and play with Armin and Mikasa.
Now, though? That knowledge has helped me to track down people and aim for the spots that hurt.
Time seems to halt when I flip through the inked pages. The words are slightly smudged, but I don't mind them. They're a good company while you're elsewhere.
I recognised a few quotes from the books you gave me. They were fascinating. You've said them to me a few times. I wonder if that's why you gave these books to me.
I'm surprised you're able to read this.
This is my mother tongue.
Not yours.
And yet, you seem adept in it.
Sweetheart, as I read these stories, although I'm quite fascinated with what's written in front of me, I would much prefer knowing your story. Your history, your facts. You've got stories to tell— I can see it in the mystery shimmering behind your brown, melancholic eyes. And I can see it in the unspoken words grappling to leave your mouth.
Please let them free.
You said I'm a good listener.
Tell me your stories, and I'll lend an ear.
Be it poetry or hand-picked flowers, I'll be here to take it all. Each word that floats through my mind, I engrave them into my skin. For the sole reason of remembering them. I want to get lost with you— or rather, I want to be lost in you. Do you think, one day, you'd grab that wooden chair with wheels and take me somewhere far from humanity? Where the birds will trail after us, singing their harpy songs. Can we go where no one else goes? Can I know what no one else knows?
Let's find shelter in the moonlight.
I'm sure, there, we'll find peace.
We can read your books all day. I don't mind sitting beside you as you delve into worlds of black and white. Happy ever after feels like such a stretch. Those fairy tales seem to fabricate the truth. Lullabies, I've realised, say the truth as is. You happen to remind me of lullabies. Soft, soothing.
You refuse to sugarcoat your words.
That, I appreciate.
I've lived my whole life with a veil of ignorance before my face. My friends didn't help either. They wanted to protect me— I understand that. I'm thankful for their attempts. But they were all futile.
I know the truth.
I see it whenever I close my eyes.
Ever since I was a little boy.
So, sweetheart, will you accept my outstretched hand and walk with me down the universe-like paths?
