... 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.

She shouldn't fight for someone who hasn't earned it so hard.

I lean in and swipe the key from the mattress, then stuff it into the pocket of my coat that hangs across the chair.

She shouldn't trust someone who hasn't earned it with things that mean so much to her. That could be turned against her so effortlessly.

The moment the key is secure, I step backward again, away from the bed. From her. Yet when I question the reason behind this absurd urgency to run that stabs like an adrenaline-loaded needle into the back of my head with every heartbeat, every tick of that fucking clock, I find nothing. If only I could know for certain . . .

What are you even so curious about? What did you come into my head for this time? You know everything that's happened and led me and her here. Oh, could it be that you do have more questions? I was always good at answering those, I guess. I found it enjoyable too. Perhaps that is why the prospect of being a detective appealed to me.

The only answer I have for you is that the way things are now, they cannot stay.

The world belongs to humanity, not to Maruki. Her life belongs to her, and everyone else's to themselves. And mine is mine. So what if I want to be certain? Or even to feel like I matter? That desire is meaningless compared to what needs to be done. What I want to do. What I need to do.

You have more certainty than I do, no? Do you already know how it'll end?

Never mind; I don't even want to know what you think you know. If I don't know, I can still resist my outcome. And yet . . .

I freeze as she leans closer and the palm of her hand brushes against my arm, her fingers seeking something . . . something . . . It takes a frustratingly long time to decide whether to pull away.

I rack my brain, but the only word that comes up to describe the way her hand is in mine, even the look she inflicts on me through strands of ridiculously messy hair, is one that I would stab a needle into my skull to rid myself of. It's . . . not like mine. Not like pain. The opposite. It is—she is . . . I clench my jaw before letting myself think that damned word again: soft. So soft that it hurts. There are different kinds of pain, of course. Some are easier to become accustomed to . . . not this pain. This pain is different . . . Stop trying for an explanation; we both know what I mean.

It doesn't become an ounce easier to bear no matter how long I hold on, yet I do not release her. In terms of certainty, the only certainty I can offer you is that this at least ends happily for her. This reality will seek to satisfy her. Am I part of this? That thought sickens me, and yet I am still here. I'm still holding on. How much will to resist can I still muster? I cannot even resist her. Not even for her own good. She is . . .

I'm yours.

I suppose I lost on that front too. I'll lose again soon, but so will she this time. If her . . . care for me is genuine, she will lose. And I can do shit about it, apparently. Is that what you came here to hear? About those words that sit at the pit of my stomach like an ulcer, growing up into my throat.

Fine. I can hear you yelling at me to stop resisting too, you know? Be indulgent, you say. She says. Make use of the time that was forced on us, I tell myself. And she wants it. She wants it. None of you know that every time I let myself indulge, it ends in blood. It might not be her blood this time, but . . . what? Does this interest you? Oh, did you actually think this was my first time?

Never mind that. She is still holding her eyes on me. Inviting. Stop. Stop! I know that she won't stop. And yet . . . "Why would you look at me like that?"

As soon as it slips out, I make a face. What the hell was that question? What kind of answer am I fishing for here? Yet as soon as she comprehends, her face lights up and her lips part. Of course . . . I almost roll my eyes. What else would she tell me, if not the same thing she's been silently telling me this whole time? Only growing more determined, more . . . all-encompassing when it should be the opposite. Looking at her makes me want to gauge my eyes out so that I can never again see her look at me like . . . that.

"You're really here," she mumbles in a voice that drives mellow, paper-light knives into my ears. A voice that matches the look. The . . . essence of her. It's soft. So soft that it drowns out the ticking of that all-knowing clock.

"You are," she repeats, looking like at something miraculous, something too good to be true. Then, "Can you kiss me again so that I'll know for certain that you're real?"

. . . I'm not, I do not say. If someone hadn't made a poor attempt to meddle with the absoluteness of truth, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be ignoring the pounding of the clock; who knows how many seconds remain until the end of the world? I wouldn't be sitting on her bed and trying to hold without breaking. Indulging.

Oh, you wanted more details? How about you stop invading my privacy and go take a cold shower or something?

Maybe it's not so bad to indulge. Because no matter the lack of a dead line, it's all only temporary. We're all bound to end up back where we started. And I'm just that wish she'll soon wish she never made.

Each tick of that clock materializes the truth that I told myself to embrace like I would any other. Logically, I cannot be certain beyond doubt, yet I am anyway. There is no alternative. No anything, besides . . . the ache of her soft breath against my cheek. Her slender fingers entangling in my hair. Seeking skin. So tender that I feel sick. How can something so inherently good make me feel so much fucking revulsion . . . Does she only exist to remind me that I'm not good? Because she is. She's so good, and I'm nothing like her.

I brush a lock of hair out of her half-closed eyes. "Don't go," she whispers, looking at me . . . If she looks at me like that again, I might vomit.

"I will," is all I reply, and some of that tenderness vanishes from her face, yet not so much that it would become bearable. In reply, she nestles deeper into my arms, as if that might change the truth.

I cannot tell her about my unjustified certainty, and it maddens me because, after what she did today, she deserves the truth. But if I tell her, I will make this choice about myself. I will make it harder for her. I want to matter, but I don't. I don't.

I don't.

Don't you understand? I don't matter because I can't matter. Because if I matter, I make myself yet another reason to tempt her to fold. I'm not the hero, and this isn't my story. I'm the villain. I'm the ruin. Is that all that you want me to be?

Hah, like I give a shit about what you want. I won't allow my fate to be in the hands of others for a second longer. No human and no god can tell me that I matter.

I can't matter, so I don't want to matter. At least if she can have me now, she won't need Maruki, yeah? Don't you d a r e fuck the world over for my sake. Do not even think about taking that choice you gave me back. Would she? I stare down at her closed eyes. Smiling genuinely, as all of her smiles are.

I cannot say for certain whether she would, which is why I cannot tell her. She will have me now, and then, when the clock's ticked out, she will regret me, but what else is new?

I am not here for her or your satisfaction. Not even my own. I am here . . . You do not wish for happiness. Those words stood out to me among all of Maruki's nonsense because this—my wish—was one of the few things he got right. Happiness is for those whose actions brought it. Those who have earned it. It is not to be handed out freely, as though it's worthless.

I would have restrained myself from swiping another lock of hair out of her face, yet what reason do I still have? Maybe I should have known that she wouldn't be deterred from the very moment that she chose the truth this morning, despite wanting me. Or maybe I have known and felt like resisting anyway. What do you think?

Rin Amamiya.

Weren't you screaming at me to use her name more? There you go. That's all you're getting. In a world where all significant choices are meant to be hers, she gave one of them to me. I would repay her with happiness if I could.

But happiness is an odd thing; so much of it hinges on the circumstances under which certain events occur. One would think that having affections for someone who reciprocates those feelings can never bring anything but happiness. Yet feeling for me will bring pain. To her, and to you too. What, you think I don't know that? It's quite ridiculous. Aren't you so selfish, forcing me to watch you hurt over me?

I suppose it's too late now. May this pain at least make you wiser. I still cannot release the hope that it will make her wiser. That she'll stop one day. She says that she won't, but . . . She's also the one who is not like everyone else. She's not supposed to be real.

She looks real, and she feels real. She feels warm. She never stops feeling warm, which was odd at first because everything grows cold with time. But she didn't, and with each passing second, I'm finding it harder to believe that she ever will. People like her . . . exist in stories, in fairytales, but not in my . . . in real life.

Didn't anyone tell you that you're not supposed to be real?

And yet here we are—here she is. She is real, and I am not. What irony.

She shouldn't be able to sleep in my arms, and yet I'm still sitting here after she's fallen asleep, feeling her even breaths, not letting her go. Not wanting to let her go. Well, since I've spent the day being a selfish coward anyway, perhaps no more harm can be done. Perhaps this time, I won't have enough time for that.

She . . . lie. My one true lie. I clench my teeth, staring down at the soft contours of her face. There is no other way to put it. No comparison to make, nothing . . . Nothing like her should be mine. And yet she wants it . . . Fool.

I force myself to stop resisting. I've already done so many things that should have broken her. This can't possibly do it now. It still takes an agonizingly long time to break down enough of my self-erected defenses, but finally, I raise my free right hand and pull the glove off with my teeth, then brush a finger against her temple. My fool.

I could strangle Maruki for what he's done to me. For what he's still doing to me.

For making me feel like I matter because I don't.

For giving me a chance, that isn't a chance at all.

It's not like I'm not imagining what it'd be like. What I could have here, what he'd give me. But that's not how the world works. If all your mistakes can be erased with the snap of a finger—no consequences, no repercussions—where is the incentive to not keep making more? I don't want my mistakes erased. They're mine; I chose to commit them. Do you think I lied when I told her that I don't regret them?

The only regret I have is self-pity. I just had to be a fool who sought it fit to damage others before he could learn. Is that regret? If it is not, I have no regrets. I am who I am because of the choices I made, and you cannot force me to refrain from suffering their consequences, Maruki. You cannot even slow the ticking of that clock.

The worst part is that I think he honestly believes it—that he's giving me a chance. That this is an option I could ever seriously consider. What kind of chance is this—to be unfree yet again? To live in a reality where I have not even the liberty to resist my fate?

It might not even work—a reality where everyone is happy according to their individual desires. There may be an individual whose happiness does not align with the group's. Their happiness may hinge on the group's unhappiness. For example, what if this individual wants something that the group doesn't? Are their desires weighed against each other, and the stronger desire wins? If the individual's desire is stronger than the group's, wouldn't he be forcing his wish on the group? Well, isn't that selfish.

Does any of this even interest you, or are you closing your eyes as well, in order to retain your comfortable simplifications? Your own bubble, in which all of this is real? It's so much further from reality than you realize.

If you're bored, you might as well leave. I'm not keeping you here. She's keeping me here, keeping me . . . The word burns sourly in the back of my mind, together with the inevitable ticking of the clock. It beats like a heart, but it's only the pulse monitor.

She believes.

Belief and resistance are so closely intertwined, all things considered. Both of them require resolve. I will keep resisting. My unfreedom is not an unprovable theory anymore; it's confirmed and real, but I won't be made to stop resisting. I'll resist until I physically can't anymore.

Resisting . . . This essence is so ingrained in my mind that it could fuel my instinct to run earlier. I suppose, for the time being, I ought to teach it to differentiate.

Over ten minutes pass, during which nothing happens besides the inevitable ticking in sync with me. As long as it ticks, my heart won't stop. And she will not stop feeling warm. Silently telling me that she wants to be held. To be stimulated and challenged. To be thrown down and undone.

I swallow down the disgust and every piece of resistance against this word too. Then I think it: The truth is, she wants to be loved.

. . . By me.

Briefly shutting my eyes, I cannot stifle a laugh.

I told her I would be gone when she wakes up, yet she wants me to stay anyway. It is almost more obvious than any of the million other things she wants from me. And yet . . . I pause. It is really my own fault that the two of us are here now. Had I not pursued her from the start, we might not be. Well . . . the corner of my mouth twitches up. At least there is one consequence of my own foolish actions that Maruki can't take from me.

Only . . . this consequence will hurt her too.

It will hurt her. It might even break her. I brush a fingertip along her cheek. And yet, had she listened to my warnings, we wouldn't be here either.

A heartbeat later, I untangle myself from her embrace and stand from the bed. I give her one last look before turning to leave.

Twisting the key in the lock, I shield my eyes from the unyielding winter breeze. Then I lift the doormat and deposit the key, looking through the glazed door one final time. There is no one to blame for this inevitable outcome besides the two of us.

That's the path we chose, I suppose.