Chapter Text
When you’re a kid, you don’t really keep track of time at all. Moments just come and go, and you take everything at face value. Whatever exists in the current moment is how it is and how it’s always going to be. Most kids don’t learn that this is the farthest thing from true until much later in their life. Early twenties, even thirties maybe.
I have always been something of an early bloomer. I came to in contact with this truth pretty early, around four years old--when my mom died. From what I knew then, she was there one day and gone the next. I couldn't figure it out at first, and only wondered why she didn’t say goodbye before she left. I couldn’t comprehend the fact that she wouldn’t be coming back, or read the hints in my father’s face as it hardened into a frown that probably still hasn't left. I didn't get why he told me to put all of my clothes and toys in a bag and brought me to his coworker's house one day. Her name was Ms. Misato, and she had always been really nice to me so I thought it might be fun. She looked confused and mad when my dad and I got there, and they yelled at each other for a long time. Maybe a few hours? It felt like that long, but I was playing with her pet penguin, so I didn't pay attention.
When my father finally left after that argument they had, he never came back.
I immediately started to cry because he left looking really unhappy. I wanted to know if he was going to where my mom was, and why no one was letting me go along. Misato just frowned too and told me kids weren't allowed to go where they were, and that I would have to stay with her for awhile. That made me even more sad, and I asked how long they'd be gone. She said she didn't know, and I cried louder. I asked her why over and over again until she screamed at me to stop.
I didn’t cry about it anymore after that (at least not in front of her), and as I grew older it became easier to understand.
After a few years I didn’t miss my father very much. Misato didn’t talk about him much, and when she did she only complained. She made sure to tell me every time that she "wasn’t trying to make me hate him." She was "just frustrated" and saying things she didn't mean. I was too old for lies like that at the time, but I let her tell them. As if she needed to convince me to hate my father in the first place. It would have taken too much energy to tell her that I didn't believe her, or that my father gave me plenty enough reasons to hate him on his own. I didn't feel like explaining, or dealing with her horrified face as she told me not to say things like that. I used to make the mistake of trying to explain myself with everything I said, or offer my opinion on things to connect with people or help them understand me. No one ever listened, really, and I've always been pretty bad at explaining myself. I was always either interrupted, chastised, or completely ignored, and to protect my feelings I just avoided it altogether.
Not being able to connect with anyone on even a shallow level got pretty lonely after awhile. Still, I was able to take the little pains from loneliness and push them down for the most part; at least so I didn’t talk about it anymore. Every once in awhile it popped up in my head, and it would deaden my mind and spirit a little. Sometimes I'd just let it linger until it threatened to escape, and just repress it then. With enough battery life in my cassette player or a long, long nap I could suppress just about anything. I could grin and bear anything, and did it for years. If I hadn't indulged that deep dark lonely feeling a bit more than was healthy, I could have probably grinned and bore my entire life well into adulthood.
But anything under pressure explodes at some point. I exploded at age thirteen, when I stood up one day in class and started screaming. I remember picking up my desk to toss across the room because it just felt like the thing to do at the time, and I felt as if I would break if I didn't throw something. The teacher stopped me in time, though, and almost carried me to the office. I had more outbursts after that, frequent but lower in intensity. Mostly crying fits, and mostly when I was alone. Whenever it happened at school I was sent to the guidance counselor, which only seemed to make it all feel worse. He was one of those "cheer up after this completely unrelated story I'm about to tell you" people, and it was really all I could bear to be suffocated by his easygoing positivity every other day. I told him whatever I could to get out of it, since I knew he couldn’t help me. I learned to adapt; to excuse myself to the bathroom until it passed, or scribble quietly on my notes until the entire page was covered in black ink. Whatever I needed to do to avoid drawing attention, but release that pressure even if just a tiny bit.
I noticed I wasn't the only one in class who seemed to struggle with this sort of feeling (this loneliness, as I called it, because that is a simple way to describe this complex mesh of feelings). There was a girl who was very quiet, and she always missed a lot of days of school. Whenever she did come back to class, I noticed scabs on her wrists and arms that looked mostly like cat scratches. Sometimes they were hastily bandaged up, and other times they were completely out in the open, as if she were too tired to try and hide them. She stayed out of the way, like I did, and seemed to do everything she could to keep people from approaching her at all. She spoke softly and hardly looked at people who spoke to her, unless it was to stare unblinkingly and uncomfortably into their eyes. Sometimes she would just walk away in the middle of a conversation, and I admired that for some reason. I noticed her over everyone else because her face seemed weighted with the same deep pain that I tried to hold in. She seemed to hurt in many of the same ways I did, but that was as far as our connection went. I never spoke to her myself unless I had to for a group assignment, and never had the courage to offer a comforting word. Hearing people whisper about her like she didn't know made me feel sorry for her, and something in me wanted to protect her. It was the only time I felt the urge to protect another person, but I did nothing.
Eventually she stopped coming to school altogether.
I felt guilty for not trying to be her friend, but I doubt she would have wanted that. Or maybe that was all she wanted, just not with people who made fun of her behind her back and pretended to be nice to her face. I thought about her cuts, which I knew weren't cat scratches. I had heard of people doing that before and had even tried it a few times myself, but it was a lot more difficult than they made it seem. It isn't easy to hurt yourself that way, but sometimes I wanted to so badly I would just hit my head, or pinch myself so hard it broke the skin. No one noticed, and the bruises were easy to hide.
This was me at my most normal. To drift through the school day, not talking to anyone and eating by myself at lunch was my default. I would go home and cook dinner for Misato and myself, since she had usually started drinking by that time and wasn’t good for anything but heating up instant meals. I would bring my dinner to my room and eat in front of the computer for hours, until pure exhaustion wrestled me to sleep. I might find myself absently clawing at my skin while I stared at the glowing screen, which was all the light I allowed in the room because it was more relaxing that way.
This was just life to me, and I saw no reason to change at all. I had no hope for anything better, and was content when nothing worse happened, which it didn't for a very long time. I wasn't prepared for any changes that might come, and I suppose that's my fault. Another important life lesson to remember is that nothing ever stays the same, as I would come to learn rather abruptly, again.
It happened late one evening while I was at home in front of the computer, slurping soup without thinking much. I was watching random videos to have some sound in the room and something to stare at. When each one ended, I'd glance over the comments section and click to the next one. Usually the comments were stupid criticisms or someone spouting a meme that had nothing to do with anything else on the page. I don't know why I read them, since they were never anything interesting, but I was on auto pilot. I paid just enough attention to see the words without thinking too deeply into what they meant. Occasionally I would run across one that made me give pause, and it was in one of those comments where I found the link.
It was submitted by an anonymous user, which wasn’t at all uncommon. It simply read, “I’m tired today. Are you tired too? Click here if you want to talk about it.” followed by a link that I didn’t recognize. I usually didn’t click things like that, and couldn’t think of any logical reason to do so then, but I couldn't deny I was curious. It seemed too well worded for spam, and it didn't really advertise any free money or too-good-to-be-true clickbait. I justified that I had a pretty good anti-virus program on my computer, so it couldn't hurt just to peek.
I clicked the link and new tab opened up, with nothing but a black screen. After a few seconds of nothing, a buffering icon showed up, followed by the words “Good Night.” Then it redirected to a forum with the same header. The page seemed plain enough; no fancy graphics or pictures, black and white theme and nothing but a list of different forum threads. There were no categories or tags, it all just seemed to be different threads that shared a common topic. After browsing several of them I was able to discern pretty quickly what that topic was.
It was a Suicide Club. Mostly the stuff of urban myths, where people went into deep detail about and even shared methods on how to successfully commit suicide. I had read a news article of one site that hosted videos of people killing themselves, and it was only shut down after the police found evidence of someone killing someone else. This place didn't seem as hardcore as that, but it was still undeniably in the same vein. I was surprised the link was so blatantly out there and easy to find. Out of curiosity I clicked back to the video page where it was posted. The page automatically refreshed when I did that, and where the comment previously was, a flag report was posted. It had only happened seconds ago, so one of the admins must have found it pretty quickly.
I went back to the site and decided to give the posts a closer look, to satisfy a morbid curiosity. A lot of them read like journal entries, where people would just write out how they felt or what was bothering them. Some people simply wrote out their suicide notes for others to comment on, others talked about why they wanted to die and the things that were going wrong in their life. There was a lot of solidarity, and the interaction seemed oddly enthusiastic and encouraging considering what the topics were. I read each of these posts and found that I could relate to them all, whether the actual thoughts or the feelings associated.
Until that point, I hadn’t actually given much thought to suicide, or even dying in general. I knew that I wanted to "get out of" my life in some way, but figured I would just have to suffer through it because that’s what I deserved. Suicide was a pretty common topic, but the thought of trying it had always scared me. There were many ways to die, and a vast portion of them seemed too painful or too likely to fail with consequences if I survived. If I were to die, I would want it to be silent and comfortable, like going to sleep without having to wake up again. Silently I hoped, every night before falling asleep, that it would be the last. If nothing else, looking at this site dispelled any feeling I may have had of being alone in this. There was something comforting about reading other people's troubles and seeing how they were met with welcoming and encouraging responses.
I entertained the notion of making a post of my own for a few minutes, and in my excitement clicked the “Sign Up” link at the top of the page. I entered my information, thankful that it only asked for an E-mail Address, Desired Username and Password. I thought for a long time about potential usernames, almost putting my own name for simplicity's sake. I cycled through a number of simple options that just didn't quite feel right, probably agonizing over it for a bit too long. After much deliberation, I settled on the name “yui”.
I bypassed the profile customization and all of that (because there was nothing I was interested in putting there anyway) and clicked on the “New Post” link, letting my hands hover over the keyboard while I stared at the blank page.
I had thousands of things to say and they all whirled through my head, formless and faster than I could pinpoint them. Everything that came to mind sounded stupid to me, or too vague, or histrionic as of I were trying too hard. I of course wanted it to sound good, but also plainly and honestly express my feelings.
The last bit of that thought seemed to raise another question, though; how exactly did I feel? Lonely was one way to describe it, obviously. So was numb. Sad, maybe. Frustrated. Hurt. Worthless. Exhausted. There were so many words I could use, and probably even more that I didn’t know or couldn’t think of. After almost ten minutes of anxiously typing and deleting, I gave up on it altogether. There was no pressure to post anything really, and I was more contented just to read posts that other people had made, as any and everything I felt was reflected in some way or another through other's words. I kept my account for the purpose of bookmarking posts that I liked, but never commented or interacted with any of them beyond that.
It didn’t take long for me to add browsing that website to my usual routine. I actually looked forward to going home after school specifically to do that. I grew so impatient at times that I had taken to heating up instant meals because cooking took too long sometimes.
I ran up to my room and made sure to close and lock the door before settling in front of my computer to browse the latest posts. I would stay up until the wee hours of the morning, too enthralled with the stories and discussions I read to even think of sleep. I was always tired at school the next day, but that wasn’t anything new, and it didn't make much difference to me.
There were a few regulars I had begun to follow, and always checked for new posts from them. One person called Maromi had been fired from their job but they were secretly glad, because the workload was inching them toward a mental breakdown. Anno-san complained that his book deadlines kept changing and he had to rush his work, which made his fans hate him. He felt empty and useless as he had given up on salary-work and was struggling to pursue his dream of being an author, but the death threats acted as amplifiers to his own insecurities, according to his words. The most interesting of the bunch was a post by Sangul, who had finally been approved for a gun license after “passing the psychological evaluation (lol)”. They bid a warm and heartfelt goodbye to their more faithful readers. I felt an odd mixture of happiness and jealousy for them, as I feel we had become distant friends even though we never spoke.
I read through the comments on Sangul's post in lieu of writing one, because I didn’t feel like agonizing over what to say. There were the usual, “Good luck!”s and “I’m so jealous uwu”’s that punctuated every farewell post made on this site. Nothing too interesting for the most part, until I scrolled to an imposing wall of text at least three paragraphs long.
The length of that comment alone was strange, since most were no longer than a sentence or two. It lacked the usual obnoxious quirks or broken punctuation, and seemed more like a carefully written speech than just random, pointless chiming in.
I read through each word, growing more and more interested in whoever wrote it as I did so. It was effortlessly poetic, and posed curious questions about life and death, motivations to act versus thoughts about the action, and many other things I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. It veered a bit away from the original post, but was related enough that it seemed more like this person was trying to start a discussion, adding their own thoughts and opinions while commending Sangul’s “courage” and “determination”.
The curtain of words was hemmed with a sad and simple, “Good night. I love you.” and I was struck by that phrase. I could have swooned, and I glanced back up to the top of the post to catch the name, “Tabris”. They had no picture to their account, but immediately my mind conjured up the image of a gentle and lovely face. I don't know why that was my initial reaction to it, since in the context "I love you" was a really weird thing to say, but somehow I found it romantic.
I clicked through to their profile and saw many more of those long, well-thought posts dated over a span of what seemed to be at least a few years. Each one broached a different topic and was focused more on abstract concepts than Tabris' own life and experiences. I was fascinated and drawn in by the tagline on their page, which also happened to end each and every post they made, consisting of that simple, “I love you all.” Before I knew it, the light of dawn crept through my window and my alarm clock went off.
Tabris’ posts and mysterious replies to other people lingered on my mind long after I had left my computer to drift through school the next day.
They often spoke of “the power of choice” and "the gift of free will”; how even though it had been given to us by some divinity or developed through evolution, as a society we tried to squash and limit that gift as much as possible. Through customs and social standards, we kept each other in check, and told each other what was and wasn’t okay to say and think. Tabris believed this was why we were all so sad, and often discussed alternatives to this mode of operating.
I almost walked out in the middle of class that day, just because I knew I had the choice to do so. I didn’t, of course, because I didn’t want to be sent to the guidance counselor again or have them call Misato and listen to her haphazard attempts at parenting later on. Those were the consequences to making that choice, and the things that kept me in line. Instead of being a rebel, I filled my head with philosophies from Tabris at night, and pondered those philosophies during the day. This went on for weeks until I finally reached their very last post.
I wasn’t sure what to do once I had finished reading them all. I couldn’t go back to reading anyone else’s, because they all seemed so shallow after all I had absorbed over the past few weeks. I had added almost every one of Tabris' posts to my favorites, and contemplated just cycling through them again.
When I refreshed the page to do so, I noticed a little mail icon that hadn’t caught my attention before. There was a bright red number "1" situated on the icon, blinking slowly as if to catch my attention. I had never received any kind of message before and figured it might be spam or something, but I clicked on it anyway. In one clean, conspicuous line across the screen, I read: “New Message from user Tabris! Subject: Hello, Yui.”
I panicked, and immediately my thoughts raced. Why on earth would Tabris message me? I hadn’t made any posts or comments at all, and my profile was completely blank with nothing special to set it apart from anyone else’s. Maybe they had noticed me lurking through their work and bookmarking every post, and I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I didn’t stop to think that it probably sent a notification every time I favorited something, and I silently chastised myself for not thinking that through.
Still, here was this message, and it was staring at me, and however scared or nervous I was then, I clicked on the message anyway. It opened up, filling my screen with words so short and simple compared to what I was used to reading that I wondered if they had even come from the same person:
“Hello, Yui. I noticed that you had started following me recently and wanted to say that I am glad you like my writing so much. I see that your profile is blank, and there are no comments in your history. I must admit I am curious. What brings you to a site like this? If you do not feel inclined to tell me that, then I can be a bit more selfish and ask you what about my posts attracts you to them? I would greatly enjoy a discussion about anything you found interesting, and look forward very much to hearing your opinions. I hope to hear from you soon. I love you. -Tabris”
My face was washed over hot and I re-read the message several times, refusing to believe that it was real. Nobody had addressed me so directly in a very long time, much less asked me to actually share my opinion on anything. I figured there must be a catch; this intelligent and maybe even beautiful person wasn't what they seemed to be. They were likely some greasy middle-aged homebody from halfway across the world who was just trying to mess with me. Maybe they were some kind of weirdly intelligent pervert that reached out to potential victims.
And even if they weren’t, even if they were my age and a genuinely nice person who I could be friends with, I would message them back and it would go terribly. I would type out my opinion and it would be too wordy or eager or desperate and that would turn them off and they’d never message me again. I came up with a multitude of reasons as to why I shouldn’t reply, and eventually my anxieties beat me into closing the tab.
For the first time in weeks, I turned off the computer and went to sleep at a decent hour, in an effort to still my thoughts.
Tabris didn’t make any posts for a long time after that. I checked everyday, spending more of my time refreshing their page than doing anything else, but nothing new came up. Occasionally I would glance up at my inbox and click through to read the message again, scanning it for some kind of red flag that would indicate it really was too good to be true.
Eventually it occurred to me that perhaps I was wrong. Maybe Tabris really was just genuinely interested in what I had to say. After all, they seemed to be incredibly thoughtful and had always engaged other users in public conversation over comment threads, so it didn’t seem too unlikely that they would want to do the same with me.
After a long time of putting it off, I finally swallowed my fear and clicked on the “Reply” button, staring at the empty response box for a moment to gather my thoughts before writing:
“Hello, Tabris. I’m sorry for the late reply. I didn’t have a chance to read your message until today,” I felt guilty about such a blatant lie, but figured it was better to use an excuse like that than tell them I had spent the last few days agonizing. “I really do enjoy the things that you write. They make me think, and I guess the most interesting thing I came across was your dissertation,”--I had to use an online thesaurus for that one--“on the gift of free will and the power of choice. I had never considered just how strong that power was, and I feel like it is the reason I struggle so much in my daily life. I am always faced with choices that I do not like, or options that I am too afraid to take because I don’t want to be disruptive or a burden. That weighs on me constantly, causing me to stifle my feelings and not express myself at all the way I want to. I admire your thoughts on the subject, and even if I might not be capable of acting on it, I agree with everything you said.”
Once I was done, I felt more relieved for some reason. Without meaning to, I had touched on some honest feelings never revealed to anyone, and hadn't fully realized myself. I hit “Send” feeling vaguely satisfied with what I had written. When I saw the text posted, and how much longer it looked than what I had expected, that relief instantly vanished. I started to panic again.
Oh god I wrote too much they’re not going to want to read all of that why didn’t I read through it first I’m so stupid oh god how do I take this back. My brain went into overdrive and my eyes were rapidly scanning the page for any kind of “Delete” button, even though I knew it was too late and that it was probably already sitting in Tabris’ inbox. I clutched at my face and groaned, blindly clicking away to another page so I didn’t have to look at it anymore.
I was not allowed the comfort of forgetting it so quickly; almost the second the new page had loaded, I noticed another message alert hovering over my inbox.
They replied that quickly? They’re online right now!? Even as I thought this to myself, I was already predicting their response in my head: knowing they would call me desperate or weird and criticize my every word or tell me to leave them alone. In spite of myself, I clicked on the message and read through it, even if only just to prove myself right.
“Thank you so much. I’m happy you replied at all. Honestly, my posts are little more than unfiltered thoughts. They are just things that pass through my mind throughout the day that I tend to muse over quite often. It’s nice to know they inspired some thought in you, and that we feel similarly on the matter. I am surprised to hear it, actually. I, too, used to struggle with accepting that gift of choice that we all have for the same reasons. I would love to continue this conversation with you, if you are interested, in a more convenient way. Do you have an instant messenger? -Tabris”
Not only had they replied incredibly quickly (without any concern for how eager that may have seemed), but they wanted to continue the conversation with me, based on what I had replied. At this point I was beside myself. They actually liked my thoughts and wanted to hear more. I was brimming with excitement and flattery. I didn’t have any instant messenger, but hurried to download the most popular one I could think of and create an account with the same screen name, just for the purpose of speaking to them. I messaged Tabris back with my screen name and bit my nails with anticipation once the reply was sent. I probably should have been more cautious about it, maybe even a bit suspicious that they were so eager to talk to me. I was just so beside myself that I could hardly think straight, and satisfied my fears with the thought that I could just block them or delete the messenger at any time if they turned out to be the creep that I feared.
Within only a few minutes, the messenger chimed in the corner of my screen and I clicked on it to accept Tabris’ request. I had never used an instant messenger before, but it was pretty easy to get the hang of. When the computer chimed at me, and I clicked on the chat window to see Tabris had sent a simple “Hello, Yui”, my heart was aflutter.
We immediately delved into conversation, as promised. It was a bit stilted at first because I was holding back, but Tabris prodded gently almost as if to make sure there was never a lull in the conversation. Whenever I couldn’t think of a reply, or clearly hesitated by typing and deleting over and over again, they posed a question and asked my opinion to help launch us into discussion.
We went on talking for so long that by the time they bid me farewell and said they had to go to sleep, I looked at the clock and noticed it was five in the morning. I wasn’t tired at all, and really didn’t want the conversation to end, but replied that I was tired as well and would be off to bed. I waited until they said goodbye first, almost holding my breath as the messenger placidly faded the words Tabris is typing...in and out.
"Thank you for having this conversation with me, Yui." They sent, after what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds.
"I feel like I should be thanking you, I loved it." I typed out at first, then meditated over it and deleted it. I sent, instead, "No problem. It was a nice conversation."
"May I look forward to speaking with you again tomorrow?"
"Of cours--" Reconsider, delete. "Sure. I'll be on when I get home, probably." Not too desperate.
"I will wait for you then. Good night, Yui. And thank you, again."
With that, they signed off, and it felt like only then I could actually exhale. Even after Tabris was offline, I read over the last bit of the conversation, especially to scrutinize my part and ensure that I had come off suitably aloof. I think I had done a fairly good job, and Tabris didn't seem offput by me yet, so I took that as a good sign. If nothing else, despite how cool and collected I tried to be, they seemed genuinely interested and eager to continue talking to me. I wasn't sure what to think about that, despite how wonderful it made me feel. I told myself that it would wear off the moment they grew weary of trying to keep up conversation with me. Until then, though, there was no harm in enjoying a few conversations.
When I laid myself down, I found that I couldn't fall asleep. My mind was still reeling with the conversation, and I found myself wishing that tomorrow would be over just so I could talk to Tabris again. My cheeks ached as I curled up into my covers, and I realized in that moment that I had been smiling the entire time.