redheadcarrier | [DDD | 063 | Action] Evapartment - Forgetfulness can be a problem.

Shinji was in his usual place, lying on his bed and staring at the increasingly familiar ceiling. Nothing but community-forced events brought him out of the apartment; he lacked the nerve for interacting with strangers on his own accord as of yet. Pathetic, Asuka would have said, how pathetic are you?

Asuka. If people's hearts were islands adrift, she was Alcatraz, its presence everywhere while out of sight. Security was tighter than ever following--then, but he had escaped with knowledge of every stain and secret once trapped behind those reinforced doors. She must be angry. She must hate him.

He had to know for sure.

Shinj crept into the kitchen, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "Um. Hi."

Asuka still doesn't know how to feel about Shinji. Time has dulled the wounds to some extent, but she thinks she might still hate him. Hate him for leaving her to die. Hate him for never actually caring about her. Hate him for everything he's ever done and everything he's never done. There was the tell-tale tightening of her shoulders as she heard him come in, but she put on her best smile (only slightly condescending) and turned to look at him with that arrogant grin he was probably used to seeing.

Of course, by now he can probably see it's not always reflected in her eyes.

"Hey, Shinji! Finally coming out of your room for once?"

There was venom buried underneath the playful teasing.

Paracelsus, the man behind toxicology, once wrote in days of Greek yore, "Everything is poison, there is poison in everything. Only the dose makes a thing not a poison."

Her words held enough to hurt, but not to kill.

Shinji smiled. "I guess so. Welcome home, Asuka."

"Thanks," Asuka replied, still smiling. How dare he? How dare he welcome her home? She knew and he knew what he'd seen, what he'd done, what he hadn't done-

"Have you seen Kaworu? We're..."

She paused and then (with only a little bit of guilt) twisted the knife, "...we're celebrating our second anniversary."

"...oh."

(THE VERY SIGHT OF YOU PISSES ME OFF)

"N-no, I--"

(Then don't come near me anymore. All you do is hurt me.)

"I dunno where. Just me."

He sags under the weight of guilt, hatred, guilt for that hatred, more self-hatred, and can think of nothing else but the crushing feeling around his heart from the poison's stronger dosage.

"Oh, well, that's alright. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually," she replied evenly and slid a chair out from the table. After a moment, she sat, dangling her arms over the back of the chair. She could see that he was hurting and she wanted him to hurt. It was the least he deserved for what he'd done to her (even if another part of her actually cared).

He cares about me. He actually looks at me. He loves me. All you ever did was run away!

"I guess you can join us, if you want," she kept her tone even as she stared Shinji down. Make him squirm.

Edited 2011-11-14 05:03 (UTC)

Why isn't he dead yet? His vision is darker and his breathing is shallow and his legs feel like they'll collapse at any moment so why isn't he dead? Perhaps he was. Perhaps this was Hell.

Fair enough. He had never believed in Heaven anyway.

"No."

Who knew it would be this easy to make him squirm? Asuka arched a brow, "What's wrong with you? I'm just making conversation."

And silently judging. But the point was to mess with his head, "You're acting weird, Shinji... Like always."

A cold feeling feeling of satisfaction settled over her. Maybe she should have felt guilt, but why should she? He couldn't show up and expect everything to be normal all over again. Not after what had happened. She leaned forward and settled her arms on the table. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, Shinji."

His name on her lips in that condescending tone sets free a white-hot avalanche of emotions. Shame, maybe; fear, maybe; another he hasn't felt in a while.

Raw anger.

(her neck was smaller than he'd imagined. she'd lost weight while wandering the deserted streets of tokyo-3, while asleep, while leaving him to suffer. how dare she? she was a filthy liar just like the rest! he'd show her, he'd--!)

Shinji glares at her with eyebrows furrowed, ready to fight until his last breath like the wounded animal he was. "Fine, Asuka."

The anger caught her attention first. Shinji didn't feel anger. At least he never expressed it anyone without totally melting down first. Her eyes narrowed into a condescending glare for as a all of the raw venom and distaste came boiling to the surface for a moment. "What did you say to me, Ikari?"

She'd just have to remind about why he was spineless in the first place.

"I said I'd look at you, Asuka."

Shinji had his meltdown already. Hell, he was just beginning to approach the still cooling warped remains of the nuclear core. And honestly, he was tired. He was tired of feeling less than human in her eyes, carrying both their sins, everything. Just tired. He would earn a spine.

That was it? That was what he was going to say? Now? After how many years? Asuka pushed her chair out with a loud scraping sound and shot to her feet, hands curled into fists against the surface of the table.

"You'll look at me? Now? Well, I'm glad you finally caught on, Shinji Ikari! It only took you four years!"

Almost four years now. She was going to turn eighteen in a couple of weeks.

"How am I supposed to know what you want? All you said since I've got here are things to hurt me or make me feel bad! You still never tell anyone what you're thinking!" Shinji could feel the prick of nails in his palms, and it hurt more with each passing second.

Good. He knew he could live with pain. Now, for the first time ever, he would push through it.

"At least I didn't leave you to die!" Asuka's voice rises into a shriek, "Maybe I should've left you to rot! Then you could've been alone with your pathetic self! Then you wouldn't have to deal with me anymore! Is that waht you want, Shinji? You never cared about me!"

Make it all go away. Make him stop. Make him pay attention. Make him admit that he never cared. Make him, make him, make him.

Make him do something.

"I wanted to save you! I did, and I was and then--" he swallows the sudden rise of bile in his throat at the memory of hardly distinguishable remains, "I was going to save you!

You were my friend, Asuka!"

For a moment, Asuka recoils as if she's been struck and then she retorts, voice cold, "I was never a friend to you. I was just your fantasy. And when I actually needed you, you just ran away."

She knows what he did. And it's still disgusting.

His shoulders shake.

Asuka is right. She was his fantasy. He would be a normal boy befriending a normal girl, melting her heart of ice, they would defeat Angels, they would get together when it was all over. It had all been a joke. Stupid beyond belief. But.

"You're as much to blame. You pushed me away when I tried to help. You made sure no one ever knew when you needed them. I didn't know what was wrong with you so I ran rather than find out. So....

I'm sorry."

"When did you ever try to help me?" Asuka's arms tremble as she stares at him from across the table. He was sorry? After everything, he was sorry? Was that supposed to make her feel better?

"That's it?"

Things are rapidly falling into place now. Instrumentality's lesson had been a long time coming, but he could see it now. He could understand now. The community showed him the door. All of his experiences in life before and after Eva gave him the key. He had to open it before he lost the will. "I didn't help you. I couldn't even help myself. Suffering like you did would be fair so that's fine. You can hate me. You'll still be my friend."

"Just shut up," Asuka grinds out, "Just shut up! Why do you think that's going to fix anything?"

Her fingernails are digging into the palms of her hands and she can't stop herself. She wants to scream and cry and hit him and make him grovel and so much else, but she can't bring herself to walk around the table.

"Stop wallowing in self-pity! You're not actually apologizing! You're just trying to make yourself feel better!"

It had been expected enough. (A phone call and a request. A plea and a bargain. Someone wishing for the day off. And Kaworu had possessed no protests. Has possessed no reluctance. An extra shift was not bad. An extra shift for a favor was not a nuisance. And he had welcomed it, enough. Had taken it.)

It had been unexpected enough. (The sudden bustling of the stilled restaurant. Holidays. The extension of hours, rolling onward. The pull for requests for service. From him. The back-up of orders. Drinks split and tablecloths replaced. A welcomed business, but –)

This was anticipated. And not.

And he can feel the shift before he sees it. Can feel the pull of upset. The throw of voices. Muffled. Here and there. (And above the roar of cars. Above the shuffle of footsteps. Below and beyond. He can hear them. Can hear the words. Spun careful and flung. The roiling edge of vitriol. The sharpening of tongues – and he’s not too quiet when he steps in. Not too quiet when his fingers find the doorknob. Not too quiet when he shuts the door behind him. Carrying back the scent of Venice. The bustle and hum of streets. Foreign – once.)

And he’s not too quiet when he’s toeing off his work shoes. Not too quiet when he finds himself moving, automatically. Following the ebb and flow of aggression. The sudden web of animosity. Waiting to pull around his ankles. Always there, but silent. Resilient. Always there, but patient. Wondering. Wandering.

He says nothing as crosses the threshold into the kitchen. Says nothing as he stands just beyond the wake of their storm. Fingers buried in the knot of his work tie. Loosening. And, for once, does not announce himself. Does not greet anyone. (And sees, without seeing, the eruption of frustration. The tension in frames. The whitening knuckles. Resignation. A table, once set. And –)

Realizes.

(He knows.)

Deep shame from Kaworu having caught him in a low moment and anger at Asuka having put him in this position muddle his thoughts. Whatever sharp retort there may have been is lost, as is any direction on how to react. He should stop because it's their anniversary; he should keep going because he is finally believing he has a right to exist; he should yell; he should be quiet; he should stay; he should run away; and none of them seem right.

Shinji waits for a decision to be made for him in silence.

Asuka's angry words catch her in throat as she realizes that Kaworu is standing in the doorway. She bows her head and for a moment her grip tightens even more, fingernails biting into her palms. She hates Shinji and she wants him to love her and she wants him to hut and she wants him to be alive and there are so many different thoughts and feelings that she isn't sure she can sort them all out.

Her throat feels raw and tight and she can feel that tell-tale prickle beginning at the corner of her eyes, so careless and boneless, she falls into her chair and stares at the wall just past Shinji's head.

"Happy anniversary." There's a certain bitterness in her words, but it isn't aimed at Kaworu.

Shame or anger. Conflict. The endless cycles of emotion. Looping and relooping. Felt and kicked into corners of rooms. Felt and brushed up against him in darkness. In the way they eyed each other, countless times, across the wake of rooms. Decorated with tripwire, unseen. Each expression a trench against feeling. Crumbling or standing. Still or unsteadily. And –

Soft. Echoed:

“Happy anniversary, Asuka.”

(And sees the boneless. Feels it in the way his fingers unravel the tie from around his throat. Feels it in the way he lets the cloth drape limply across his palms.) And does not look, and truly, to either of them. For a moment. For a longer moment. Recalling different faces. Recalling the silence of this apartment. Once. Recalling the difficulty of change. Of love unrequited or unspent. Of something he could not fill up, on his own. Of something he had wished to help with, but knew it impossible. Some things, never within particular grasp. Shinji-kun and Asuka – and his feet are finding their way to the table. Carefully, but sure. (Carefully, but sure. Sure he will find something. Nudge something. Awaken something – )

Humanity is a deep well sorrow, and no matter how many times he may cup his hands. May drink or spill the waters from the millions of miles. From every trial and trepidation. The disconnect of bodies or the endless longing. From the heart of children who had lost their precious ones. From those fingers who had once held him. Lovingly, desperately, and so filled with emptiness - he will never drain it. He will never see the bottom. See the unerring happiness that has been snatched from them. Feel that hope. But, even so –

He dips his fingers in again. Cups his weary hands. And drinks without drinking the bitter emotions that roil up to him. That speak without speaking to him. Who regard him, but shy from him. That sit on the outskirts of his mind and dare not tread in. Not truly. And settles down between them. Takes the chair that separates them. That presents himself a barrier, for the moment. Never enough to keep out words.

And there is a familiar transparency that settles within him. Unnameable. A familiar sadness. And he looks to them both. One, then the other. Looks to:

“Shinji-kun?”

Spoken in the curve of a question. Muffled in the stretch of vowels and the softening of consonants. And his eyes speak nothing, beyond a fainter warmth. A kind of latency of feeling. A single word, buried. And unspoken: stay.

Shinji hesitates. He wants to leave; in his mind's eye, he can himself turning away without another word. But this is Kaworu. No matter how great or how gruesome or how impossible, he would carry out whatever task he asked of him.

He sits opposite of Asuka without looking at either of them.

For Kaworu, he will stay.

Why is he talking to him? Why is she inviting him to stay? Sometimes she wonders why they even keep him around the apartment at all. The resentment and irritation and hatred that well up in her scares her sometimes, but just now she feeds on it. So she glares at Shinji for a moment from across the table and then stands, chair scraping across the floor and stalks out of the room.

The slam of a door heralds her departure from the conversation.

On the other side, she throws herself onto her bed and buries her face against a pillow. She's frustrated and angry and irritated and she can't let it out. She can't figure out what to do with it or how to let go of it. So she screams into her pillow and tries to forget about all of her bitterness.

There's something small that claws or crumbles. Something small that starts to fracture, bend, or twist. And it mumbles and mutters at the sound of the door. Hisses and rumbles at the sound residual slam. The echo too loud in his own ears. Felt instead of heard. Felt, instead of --

(It is is not the first time. It is not. And he remembers the paths she's tread like this before. Knows and does not know why it is she has left. Knows and does not know, what lies beyond his grasp. The aching wells of bitterness. Filled to overflowing. Filled beyond their holds. Their stone and mortar walls. And he stands up to his ankles. Feels the way their sorrow soaks into his skin and does not speak. Does not flinch. Does not do a thing. For a long moment. For a long moment. For a long, long time.)

For a long, long time. He does not think to look to Shinji. Does not think to do much, beyond quietly feel the shifting weight of this apartment. The way, no matter how far he might stretch. No matter how carefully he might cup their hearts within his fingers --

He's silent, instead. Does not ask him a word. Does not inquire. Nothing creeping into his expression. Nothing resting at the corners of his lips. Just a side-ward glance, that speaks and does not. That does not fault and does not blame.

Does not grant him weight, of anything.

How expected was this turn of events. One usually didn't fancy idle conversation with their murderer over slices of cake.

All energy evaporated with Asuka's departure. Gravity weighed heavy and forced spine and shoulders into a despondent slouch. Shinji stares at the space she once took and then to Kaworu, eyes empty and full of knowing (of her, of him, of all of them, of many things) in the same moment.

"She'll never forgive me, will she, Kaworu-kun?"

Edited 2011-12-08 08:16 (UTC)

Back in her room, Asuka can only hug the pillow against herself and stare at the far wall. She hates this feeling, the pent up frustration, the growing sense of wanting to do something, but unsure of what, the urge to smash and yell and scream until she felt empty and hollow and drained. Better than this.

Another moment of staring and she snaps, scooping up the alarm clock from alongside the be she shares with Kaworu (how can he sit there and talk to him, how can he sit there and act like it's all normal-) and she hurls it at the far wall with a clatter. She slams a fist into the wall next to her, ignoring the blossoming feeling of pain.

She wants to hurt and be hurt and she can't think of another way to do it.

He can feel the shift. (Can feel the gradual push of weight. Can feel the gradual shove. Between his shoulder-blades. Can feel the anger and the sadness. Never his. Can feel the way his back begs bow, but he ignores it. Ignores it. And he can feel the knowing in the way Shinji looks to him. Can feel the sudden and ineffable clarity of one so hurt and so tangled-up. And for once, and for once -)

He's meeting his eyes. Feeling the echo of a deeper tonality in his voice. Something that holds and does not hold. That sees and does not see. And tries the fainter warmth he wraps his words around. He knows this. He knows and does not know. What he has pieced together. Clear enough. What he has gathered together. Over time and over anger. Over sorrow. In the midst of sleeps so deep that words tremored or shook. Clipped themselves free of the source and reach him, hesitatingly. (Knotted up. Blame or rightful blame. Mistakes and mismanagement. A difficulty in puzzling out the whys or whens or hows. The inevitable and preventable hurt. And he's quiet. For a beat or two. Quiet, before he's settling his hands upon his lap. Quiet, as he's lacing his fingers together. And:)

"... To expect individual change - to want it, the other must remember that such a thing might only be granted by those who control it," and he's listening. Waiting. For something to drop. "When one happens to be hurt, the most another might provide them is--"

And the sudden clatter chokes off syllables. The sudden slam of something cuts in, cleanly. And it does not take more than a moment to discern the source of the sound. Does not take more than a moment to know it. And -- (he should leave her to herself. Should allow her space. Should allow her time. But, the second is the sound of flesh. The second is the inevitable injury if she continues. And he's wordless in the way he rises, knowing it to be -- and looks to Shinji. A soft request. Similar, before he moves to the bedroom: stay.)

Edited 2011-12-10 17:09 (UTC)

No matter how great or how gruesome or how impossible, Shinji would carry out whatever task Kaworu asked of him. That was love. Deep, hurtful, destructive, yes, and still. It was love.

For Kaworu, he will nod slowly and make no move to follow.

For Kaworu, he will stay.

Asuka still rages around her room. She's not throwing anything anymore, but she's knocking items over. Trying to vent the frustration and sheer destructive, vindictive rage that keeps welling up inside of her. Why did it have to be today? She hates it. She hates him. At the same time she wants him to be OK, but she doesn't, she couldn't care less and she wants him to suffer. Why today? She doesn't notice Kaworu's approach, his entrance. She's too busy hurling a pillow against the wall with a wordless shriek.

And he can feel the look before he sees it. Can feel the wake of something soft and silent. Can feel the push of emotion against some foreign shore. An obedience and no question. And something small seems to sway or stammer. Squall. Something quiet seems to stumble, stammer. And does not break or bury. Does not bend or burrow. Dragging sand and salt back to currents. Dragging thoughts and freedoms. A destructive, merciless force. And he remembers his hand beneath his own, fleeting. A moment before –

There’s the dip of thanks in the curve of his shoulders. There’s a softness without clear name. A sort of love or love. Skirting the corners of his expression. Chancing into shadows. Into the fainter narrowing of eyes. In understanding. In a kind of seeing. An ineffable warmth, always. Always, and – he goes. (No need for the continuation of pain. Upon him. No need for the continuation of pain, upon her. And -)

And it is not a moment before he is before the bedroom door. Not a moment before he lingers just beyond the doorjamb. Waiting for realization. Waiting for something. Seeing the rage in her posture flickering, flaring. Seeing the way she vocalizes something and nothing. Without utterance, sound – and keeps a careful distance. Keeps a careful stance. Open, though. Receptive. And prepares for the sudden rearing of words. Prepares for what he knows might come. And weathers it.

Always.

Edited 2011-12-19 17:07 (UTC)

Waiting is exhausting. Perhaps that's why he was always so tired in Tokyo-3. There, he was always waiting for the moment when he was told they didn't need him anymore. It's the same here. There will be a day of rejection. There always was.

Shinji heaves himself up and out of the chair then shuffles toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He's tired of functioning for now. Not that the sleep will come easy, the nightmares see to that. Still preferable to sleep than face waiting for the inevitable torrent of rage.

All because of his continued existence, the audacity of living when so many--

"Why did you stay out there with him?" She's not screaming, but her voice is raised. Angry. Hurt. All different emotions swirling together and it's hard to keep track. "Why? This is supposed to be about us!"

Or so she says and wants it to be. Maybe she's just frustrated. Maybe she's angry. Maybe she just doesn't know what to feel about that quiet boy who has done so much to hurt her in the past. Maybe it's her own insecurities flaring up. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There are so many causes, so many ideas. It's hard to know which is actually pushing her. Pulling her.

And there is fury that froths and that seethes. There is hurt that sluices through silence and breaks against stillness. That does not last long enough. That does not cut cold enough. To dampen insistent inquires. To muddle muted demands. That raise and lower like wind against tidal pools. Endlessly caught up. Endlessly caught in. Whirling without seeming means to slide free. Without seeming means to allow it to –

The questions are not unexpected. And he feels the way they dig in, tooth or claw. Feels the way they try and pierce, though his expression stays placid. Stays calm. (And he knows. He knows of some insecurities. Knows of some confusion. Knows and knows and knows, though knowing does not curb a thing. Does not curb this. Not this time. Not now. Not when so much has boiled or bubbled. Up to the surface. Not when so much leaves question. Leaves emotion, knotted. As it has always. As it has ever. As it has – and for a moment, he does not go to answer. For a moment, he does not do more than to keep his expression clear. Does not do more than to understand. Jealousy or uncertainty. Uncertainty or turmoil. Since the first time he reappeared. So long ago, now, it seems. So long ago now, it feels. His body once so cold and so light in his hands and – he answers, quietly. A contrast. Always.)

“… He had happened to ask a question,” Not wholly untrue. Not wholly – a beat: “That is all.”

Edited 2011-12-21 04:55 (UTC)

"He asked a question?" Her voice rises, "So what? Why does his question matter so much? What makes him matter so much? He-"

He left her to die. He let her die. He never cared about her. She hates him. She hates the way he looks at her, the way he tries to apologize, the way he's always there and she can never shake off the memory of-

"Do you just love him more than me!? Is that it!?"

She regrets those words the moment they leave her mouth, but she can't take them back, not now. It would be an admission that she was in the wrong. An admission of guilt. And she refuses to do that. She's almost shrieking at him now.

"Or maybe you're just trying to find a way back to the good old days when I wasn't there to be in between the two of you!"

Edited 2011-12-21 04:59 (UTC)

And there is something small within him that mutes or murmurs. Something small within him that smothers or suffocates. And he can feel it burning bitterly behind teeth and upon tongue. Can feel it clawing, crooning aimlessly within his lungs. Can feel it when he draws not breath, but silence to himself. That seems to bleed or break or bend and spills forth or burbles up from some well, perhaps, that has always rested deep within him and speaks – not and always. Speaks, but has no name. But rests soundly in the fainter tightening of ribs or the curve of his fingers. In the way he seems to remember the first time she had laid her hand in his. The first time he had laid his hand in his. The first time –

And it is ineffable. And it is something without banks. And he cannot cup his hands for this. Cannot drink it down. Only feels it flowing like a river through him. Only feels it as it bypasses all attempts to distort his expression. Only – and there is a deafening stillness that holds in him. That paints something vacant in its wake. And suddenly, there is nothing at all. A void or neutrality in the way his look settles, beyond just the turn of understanding. Knowing, knowing – jealousy. Knowing, knowing – how much she had hurt. How much he had hurt. And how their hearts, once or presently weighed or weigh in his hands. How much pressure both might of withstood or withstand.

And he’s only listening to her. Only feeling the rise of syllables. The way they shake or they tremble. The sharper edge, and does not say a word. For a moment. Does not think to say a word, for a moment. Neither moving forward or moving back. Neither shifting or recoiling. Neither – and his voice carries something (too soft, almost), tangled up and impossible. Something like knowing or patience. Something like reassurance and understanding. Something like -

“Asuka.”

Silence.

Her name. Just her name and that was all. And it went into a sudden stillness and quiet that settled over the room as Asuka stared at Kaworu, hands clenched into fists at her sides, jaw set, ready to unleash another wave of shame, of abuse, of anger. To let out everything that had ever tormented her, to focus all of her own self-loathing into a single string of rage directed at someone or something in the world. But that one word seems to deflate her, to let out some of the air and her shoulders slump and her gaze drops and suddenly she can't hold in the tension and the raw emotion anymore. Her throat feels tight, her breath catches and hitches and she sinks down onto the bed, covering her face with her hands as she starts to cry.

This wasn't how this night was supposed to be.

And there is something in him that does not speak, but burns. Softer or dimmer. And there is something in him that does not answer, but breaks or crumbles. That turns to ashes on his tongue. That turns words to embers. That makes something sting and he feels it – the way her shoulders slump. The way her fists uncoil. The way all things seem to unravel. Slowly and quickly. As something that has been shoved to edge of some sorrow topples. Dominos. And nothing within him can seem to stop. Knows that nothing within him may ever stop it. Not wholly. Not entirely. (Not like this.)

And there is something in him that urges him to move. Something in him that urges him to budge as she crumples to their bed. As he feels the pull of some deep frustration and some deep sadness that is not his own. As he feels it tighten and tug. All along, knowing how much she had hurt in what ways he could. All along, remembering the way she had looked to him. The way she had remained by him. Determined and stubborn. Unable to admit. Able to deny. No death, no monster. No child left to learn to be human. No manner to leave her alone (and he had never wanted to, he had never meant to – he had never - )

And there is a quiet in the way he finally moves. In the way he finally crosses what distance seems too short and too long - and crouches down before her. A stillness in the way he dares not sit beside her, but merely before her. And does not reach to touch her, truly. Does not reach to touch her, fully. Fingers lingering upon each knee. Listening. Waiting for something. Waiting for anything. Waiting for – and there is something within him that causes him to blink. Hard. That causes him to look away, or look toward. That makes his body difficult to balance, though he balances. A sort of disjointed feeling, though he feels for himself her sobs. Feels for himself the weight of something that breaks within her. That mirrors or mimics within him, though does not ripple through him. Only drowns. Only stays. Only remains, his expression shifting to unreadable. (And he wonders how deeply the words are down, but he cannot dredge them. Cannot pull them up, feeling acutely the pain that is not his own. Feeling acutely something that is. And – )

Pulls.

And does not feel the odd tightening of his shoulders. Does not feel odd way his ribs ache. Does not – and weighs his fingers. A little heavier. A reassurance and a question. A promise or reminder. A search or offer. And listens.

[DDD | 063 | Action] Evapartment - Forgetfulness can be a problem.

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