もののけ | monster | soshiro hoshina (Kaiju No. 8) (COMPLETE)

さんじゅうさん | thirty three

もののけ | kaiju | monster

33

Soshiro

LYING IN HER LAP FEELS LIKE HOME. Her fingers weave through my hair, gently ruffling some locks—a habit she's had since our early days. My eyes close as I let myself fully absorb the moment, still in disbelief that it's really happening. The warmth of her touch, the softness of her fingers—it all feels surreal, especially after everything.

"I really had no idea what happened back then," she started, her voice unexpectedly calm, a departure from her usual stern and commanding tone. Her touch is gentle that contrasted sharply with the aggression she often directed towards me.

"I just knew I almost died, that's all I remembered," she added, her voice guarded yet strangely tranquil. The way she said it, I could tell she was concealing something, hiding behind a facade she wasn't ready to let go of. But she was talking, communicating with me, and for now, that was enough.

I try to tell myself that it's enough—that the effort to communicate, even if it feels forced, is acceptable. Kiyomi is trying, I remind myself. She's reaching out, attempting to bridge the chasm between us. It's something I can acknowledge, though it strains against the weight of my own doubts. As if she doesn't trust me...

Her attempt to communicate and open up, even if everything she says is a fabrication. It's progress, isn't it?

Part of me wants to laugh at how absurd this situation is—how she's making a fool out of me. But then again, I am a fool. A fool for still loving this woman despite everything. For loving her from the very start.

"But I still recall the sensation of crushing weight, my body was being crushed under tons of concrete... I remember the sound of my bones cracking, the slow slip into unconsciousness... Now I know what it feels like to be buried alive. It's terrifying," she said with an unsettling calmness, as if recounting a mere nightmare. Her composure unnerved me deeply.

The memory still haunts me, a chilling echo of that day. I remember desperately trying to lift those heavy objects off her, my hands trembling, my heart racing with the fear that I was too late. My brows furrow as I replay that nightmare, a relentless cycle of panic attacks and anxiety that has become my constant companion.

As I wrestle with these memories, I suddenly feel her fingers brushing lightly against my furrowed brows. The touch is delicate, soothing, and almost instantly, my facial muscles relax. I slowly open my eyes and look up, finding her gaze fixed directly on me.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly, her voice gentle, almost hesitant.

I lift my hand, reaching for hers, and slowly intertwine our fingers. Her hand is cold, sending a shiver through me. My heart skips a beat, and I'm flooded with a painful memory I wish I could forget. I stare at our joined hands, her small hand dwarfed by my larger one.

"Your hand was cold back then," I say quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Cold as ice. Even more pale than this..."