You Were The Path I Chose | A Goro Akechi Romance

## . . . Is Incomprehensible

... I already told you to get out of my head. There is nothing here that'll interest you. Did you not read the title? There is nothing to comprehend here. Not even anything new (as if I'd ever give you that.) It's a waste of your time to still be here . . . Don't say I didn't warn you.

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There's no telling how much time passed, but it may as well have been seconds. One kind of time didn't pass at all—that kind of time that makes everything easier to handle. To bear. Right now, everything is so unbearable that a part of me thinks I'd rather be ripping out my fingernails again. At least all of that was real.

None of this is real. Not even me. But you already know that, no? Stop expecting anything new from me; I'm not giving you shit. If I have to be bound by this reality, at least I'll keep my head all to myself. I'm not actually what you want, but exactly what you need. I wish I weren't either.

My eyes remain glued to the clock on the table, ticking. Ticking. Picking up . . . speed? Ridiculous.

Stop coming here and demanding more. I'm not your pawn or your puzzle piece to let you read me or place me wherever you see fit. Do it with the rest of them . . . Do it with her. But you do not control me. Does that vex you—is that why you're here? To try anyway? In that case, I hope sincerely that you're a masochist.

"I forgot the door!"

I flinch when Amamiya jolts up and nearly falls off the bed again. "You will actually break your neck if you keep this up."

I barely catch her around the waist, and she breaks into that kind of hysterical giggle, which I've yet to hear anyone but her make sound more palatable than nails directly to the eardrums. For one moment, she falls back against my chest, and the clock ceases to tick.

Delicate fingers dig into the fabric of my vest as she supports herself. I watch her try to crawl out of bed in all the least attainable ways imaginable for a second longer than I would have had to before I finally push her back on the sheets. "I'll do it."

Anything to escape that maddening ticking. If that clock were mine, I'd hurl it at the wall.

Already at the door, I stop. "If we lock the door now, I can't leave."

"Lock it from the outside when you go, then stick the key under the doormat," she mumbles, then yawns, placing a key onto the mattress. "I'll text Sojiro about it."

My eyes are glued to that key and the unearned, undeserved, carelessly given trust that clings to it. Then I finally acknowledge her hand beside it and the invitation it signifies. That . . . hand that she extends, just far and open enough to mean something. I should get the fuck out of here.

The moment I catch myself thinking that, my eyes find that clock again that has not ceased hammering into my ears. Time isn't standing still, no matter whether things become easier to bear or not. Time is . . . Is it running out? But for what? There is no dead line. No due date. No . . . anything for time to be running toward. But time is always running. My time is . . .

For a moment, I stand there, acknowledging the oddity that is giving a shit about time spent . . . on myself. My eyes flicker over to Amamiya; she lays with her cheek squished against the pillow, looking . . . peaceful. Finally, she does. She hasn't since she lost that horrid blank smile that came with Maruki's bubble.

The bubble, which she did not choose.

Anyone else with her desires would have. I take a step closer, glaring at the clock, which cannot cease to push its evidence about the inevitable passage of time into my ear, before turning back to her. She isn't like everyone else. That concept is incomprehensible, no matter how desperately she fights to prove it.