Work Text:
You sit in an entirely silent office. The room is cold, practically freezing. You do not complain, who is there to complain to?
The room is dark, or is it perhaps you who is dark? This has gone on far too long for you to remember.
When was the last time you’ve felt human as if you could belong somewhere? You stare at your hands, gloved and shaking.
When was the last time you’ve felt someone’s touch? Stealing someone’s warmth because you’ve forgotten how to create your own.
In an odd way, you’re sure that you’re dead. A shadow of a human, someone kinder, someone brighter, long faded into whatever hues that make up your shape.
There’s a disappointment, the knowledge that you wouldn’t be recognizable to the people who were your friends.
But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? The people who you called your friends left you for dead, bleeding, and cold.
And that was in a much kinder world, that was when you were a much kinder person. If friendships from there meant nothing, what do friendships in this world mean now?
Is there any meaning left at all?
And suddenly you realize how blind you really were before, even if you attempted to bring everything back to the way it was before, even if everyone became their best selves you wouldn’t be able to forgive.
The world had been decided when everyone you loved chose manicured claws ripping their skin over your outstretched hand when they had left you in the dust, stepping on you like you were simply a bridge on the path to their corruption.
And why wouldn’t it happen again? What would change with new people that you met? In a world much crueler at least her plans might seem a little bit more appealing.
Or maybe you were the problem, even back then. Were you so obnoxious that constant suffering was a much better, a much more enjoyable prospect?
When looking into a mirror you can’t even see him, the naive man who had understood nothing about the world was long dead. Brown hair permanently damaged as black hair dye erased all traces of innocence.
Every time you see your reflection you’re tempted to smash the glass, to scream for something that exists no longer.
You’re not sure if you see yourself or someone else, a disconnect so thorough you’ve chosen to ignore it.
Perhaps it’s time to stop chasing after a dead man’s dreams, but if they are still your own somehow it would be a disservice, wouldn’t it?
With every strong emotion, something that you’re sure you would feel, but at the same time not, the world grows a little darker.
The mirror grows harder to look at, is there such a thing as acceptance or denial when your worldview is constantly changing?
Who are you? Who will you be? Whose goals will you accomplish? As you understand more, no matter the lens, your heart becomes murkier and your reflection becomes clearer.
Can you really say that mourning is unwarranted when you’ve become two separate people?
Which one will suit you more? Which you are you really?
“Nozomi,” a worried voice murmurs, harsh against the loud silence in your mind.
You suppose that’s right, when you had recovered you had decided to forsake your appearance and identity for someone else.
“Nozomi,” the voice is louder, there is a pressure somewhere, although where is unknown.
You had grown into the new identity, discovering a routine that was comfortable, if a bit mundane.
“Nozomi, please,” the voice is wavering.
Who was really killing Naegi Makoto?
“Nozomi, can you hear me? You need to breathe,” the voice instructs, loud once more.
Was it Enoshima with her death trap?
“Nozomi…!”
Or is it you, with every breath you take?