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They walk through the forest, its tender flesh knitting itself back together. The leaves of autumn drift on the breeze, burnt orange and deep red, trailing around them like fragments of a memory. They match her hair, and he notices.
“Asuka,” Shinji says quietly from behind her.
“Hm?”
“I just realized something.”
“Oh?” She glances over her shoulder, raising a brow.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, with a smile that feels real—rare, but real.
She suppresses a laugh, rolling her eyes, but there’s warmth in the gesture. A flicker softens her features.
“Come on, we still have a long way to go.” She takes his hand without looking back and keeps walking, leading him deeper into the trees.
The forest closes around them, quiet and vast, but her grip is steady. Warm. For a moment, it’s enough.
“Is it right?” he asks, peering over her shoulder at the map in her hands.
It’s definitely upside down.
She doesn’t answer right away—and he can see the faint flush on her cheeks, the way she holds the map just a little too stiffly, pretending nothing's wrong.
He smirks. She’s obviously not lost. Just… navigating creatively.
“Not a word,” she mutters, shooting him a sharp side-eye, already feeling the smugness radiating off him.
He places his hands gently on her shoulders, giving them a soft squeeze—more reassurance than mockery—and somehow, that’s enough.
“Agh, fine, take it.” She shoves the map into his hands, a reluctant, almost adorable pout forming on her lips. “Let’s see how the invincible Shinji handles the situation now.”
“I feel like ‘The Orientational Shinji’ fits the occasion better,” he laughs, unfolding the map with exaggerated confidence.
“Smartass. That was one time,” she snaps back, flicking his forehead with practiced precision. The smile creeping onto her face is one she almost manages to suppress—but not quite.
He looks up—and freezes. In front of them stands a massive wall of stone, gray and unmovable, exactly where a lake should be.
His eyes dart back to the map. Then the wall. Map. Wall. Again. And again.
It’s hard to concentrate with her laughter echoing like thunder behind him, absolutely delighted.
“Okay, I get it—” he starts, folding the map to put it away when a faint coughing sound cuts through the air behind him.
He turns instantly, almost like a reflex drilled in by something far heavier than instinct.
There she is, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The coughs are light, nothing alarming. But her eyes—there’s a softness there, tinged with something sadder, something quiet.
He can’t tell if it’s for her… or for the way he’s looking at her now.
He walks to her without a word, takes her hands gently in his. His thumbs rub slow, careful circles against her skin, grounding himself in the warmth of her.
He bites his lip, holding back something he can’t quite name—until she gives him one of her smiles. Small. Fragile. Real.
He loves those smiles more than he knows how to say. And somewhere deep in his chest, the thought flickers—
He wouldn’t know what to do if he never saw one again.
“Let’s ask the guide,” he says softly. “We can go tomorrow.”
That tone—gentle, coaxing, laced with concern. The one she once mockingly called his “puppy eyes” voice. It usually works.
Not today.
She shakes her head, just once, but it’s firm. Unmoving. Her hands stay in his, but her gaze drifts past him, toward the trees ahead.
One of her hands lifts to his face, pinching his nose—just a little too hard—as she gives him what he once mockingly called her “meany stare.”
“Can’t do, Third. A deal’s a deal.”
“We never made any deal!”
“Oh?” she tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Then why did you prepare the bratwurst I asked for?”
“I haven’t made any brat—” He stops mid-sentence as realization dawns, and there it is: that grin. Wide, smug, absolutely insufferable.
“Oh, you cheater.”
He groans, rolling his eyes into a frown, as she sticks her tongue out at him with victorious glee.
As they finally arrive, he glances at her from the corner of his eye. Not directly—just enough to take her in without disturbing the moment.
His gaze lingers on the nasal cannula resting gently against her face, the soft hissing of the oxygen device tucked into her backpack almost blending into the forest’s hush.
Even with that. Especially with that.
He will never tire of looking at her. Somehow, every time, she manages to surprise him—by still being here, by still smiling, by being so impossibly beautiful it almost hurts.
His eyes shift from her to the scene before them.
A crystalline lake stretches out, so clear it feels untouched by time. Its surface shimmers with the light, gentle ripples catching the sky’s reflection. From its edge, a river is born—narrow at first, then winding confidently through the forest like a living thing, flowing all the way back toward the town.
The veins of nature, pulsing quietly beneath everything. Connecting them. Carrying life forward.
“It’s here, right?” he asks again, softer this time.
“Hmm,” she hums in reply, the sound faint but affirmative.
He watches her face, still, thoughtful. She does that a lot now, ever since the surgery. The way her gaze drifts, like she’s reaching for something far away. Not absent, just… deeper.
He remembers how her eyes first opened in that hospital bed. Unfocused. Fragile. As if waking from something much longer than sleep.
And he remembers how he had to bite down the urge—to throw his arms around her, to cry like a child into her shoulder. Because she was still here. A miracle wrapped in silence and machines.
She’s still here. Thanks to them.
They are here. Because of them.
But they are no longer here.
An old pair—two souls who had rejected Instrumentality, choosing instead to live out their years together. Quiet, content, in love. A good life. A long one.
Until the sickness came. It struck the woman, slow and cruel. It spared the man—but not his heart.
He couldn’t bear to keep going without her.
So, as a final act of kindness—of love—they gave a part of themselves to save another pair.
To save them.
Shinji takes a deep breath, slow and deliberate. Feels the air flood into the organ that once resided in another chest. One that now lives on inside him.
“Let’s do it then,” he says, and she nods in return.
He kneels and sets his backpack down gently on the grass, unzipping it with care. From inside, he lifts out a small urn—smooth, light, yet impossibly heavy. A final wish from someone they never knew.
“Can I do it?” she asks, her voice soft, unusually timid.
“Sure.” He offers it to her with a bit of hesitation.
She takes it in both hands and walks forward, slow and steady, until she reaches the edge of the lake, where the stream begins to flow.
She stands there for a while, still as the water itself, her gaze fixed on the crystalline reflection at her feet.
He watches from a short distance, uncertain of what she sees in that glassy surface—but he has a good guess.
Maybe it’s the past. Maybe it’s herself. Maybe it’s the part of her that still wonders why she’s the one who stayed.
He feels guilty.
A kind of selfishness he’s learned to live with—something lodged too deep to remove. Most days, he accepts it. But some days, like now, he hates that he has to.
Shinji steps forward, silent, until he’s just behind her. Slowly, he rests his chin on the crown of her head and wraps his arms around her waist.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
“Why?”
“Because I know you’re someone who’ll make something good out of it.”
He squeezes her gently, a little tighter.
A soft whimper escapes her. Then, wordlessly, she tips the urn. The ashes scatter into the water, carried by the stream—beyond sight, beyond knowing. Toward another place. Another reality.
He folds his hands together and bows his head in prayer. He doesn’t know if he believes. He’s not sure what there is to believe in.
But then he hears it—a sound, simple and ancient. Nature breathing. The wind moving through the trees. The endless fighter, refusing to fall silent.
He feels the sun on his skin. The crisp chill of autumn in his lungs. A world that hurts—and heals.
He feels her beside him. Another human. Still here. Praying too.
And so, he keeps praying.
They arrive home a few hours later. The sun is lower now, casting warm, tired shadows across the floor.
Asuka’s eyes drift toward the wall, where the degrees hang, neatly framed. Once, she thought she’d hate seeing them every day—a reminder of something she believed she wasn’t good enough for. A life she didn’t think she could ever claim.
It feels like a lifetime ago, but she still remembers it clearly: the first patient who smiled at her. Not because they had to, but because they meant it.
Her hand moves gently to her lower chest, fingers brushing the spot where tender skin is still healing beneath her clothes. Her breath hitches, just slightly, before she turns toward the drawer.
“Shinji, can you come here for a second?” she calls out, her voice soft, something close to a smile forming on her lips as she finds what she was looking for.
“Is everything alright?” he asks as he steps into the room.
His eyes settle on her—she’s wearing a loose tank top, hanging effortlessly over her frame. But she knows him. He’s not staring because of that. He is not the pervert she always accused him of.
She knows exactly what he’s looking at.
And—she wants him to.
The scars peek out from the armholes of her tank top, pale lines against her skin, impossible to miss. She doesn’t fully understand why, but she does try to hide them. In fact, she wants them visible, within reach.
A quiet reminder.
She needs to know they’re still there. That they’re hers. Proof of something endured, something survived. A part of her story she carries openly—even if not always out loud.
She doesn’t flinch under his gaze.
And she doesn’t have a reason to.
There’s something in the way he looks at her—steady, open, without pity—that unravels the tension she used to carry like armor. And for that, she wants to say something. Anything.
But the words aren’t there.
She doesn’t know how to express the depth of it—the strange, overwhelming gratitude she feels. For his presence. For his quiet understanding. For never looking away.
So she just holds his gaze, her hand still resting lightly over the scar beneath her shirt, and lets the silence speak for her.
He steps forward and hugs her, arms wrapping around her with that quiet certainty she’s come to rely on.
“I’m fine with them. You know that, right?”
“Not like you have the option to disagree.”
“But you still want to hear it.”
She smirks, leaning into him. “Quite the learner.”
A pause—comfortable, close.
“Do you think they’ll let me go to work like this?”
“Hell no.”
She pulls back just slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up, Shinji? Is that jealousy I hear?”
“You know what? Yeah. Kinda.”
She hums, clearly pleased, resting her head lightly against him.
“I figured.”
She always knew it was a kickass idea to bolt beach chairs to the ceiling.
It took Shinji a while to stop asking if it was safe. Now he doesn’t ask—he just climbs up beside her like it’s always been part of the plan.
Tonight, the sky is impossibly clear. Stars scattered like dust across black velvet. The kind of night that feels like it’s holding its breath.
She thinks it’s beautiful. Not in a fragile way—just true.
So they stay there, side by side, suspended just below the heavens. Letting silence speak. Letting breath settle.
Basking in the presence of the other.
“We should expand our range,” she says to the air, eyes still on the stars. “I heard they’re looking for doctors in Yokohama.”
It’s casual. Almost throwaway.
But he catches it.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I was thinking about it too.”
The seed of a future is quietly planted between them, drifting upward like dust into the night sky. Neither of them names it. But it’s there.
“Why?” he asks, voice soft, rising toward the ceiling along with their thoughts.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes—deep, steady. She likes breathing like this now. With intention. Like she’s reclaiming something no one thought she would get back.
“When I think about it,” she finally says, “it feels like that day again. When we got out of the beach... and…”
“Yes,” he says gently. “I know.”
“It’s not like I dwell on it,” she adds, her voice calm, neutral. “I always thought we left it behind. A long time ago.”
Her hand drifts, almost absentmindedly, over her lower chest. Fingers brushing the spot with a quiet reverence, a subconscious kind of grace.
“This... what just happened,” she murmurs, more to herself than to him, “it’s a consequence. You know. Karma.”
She feels the faint tension ripple through him. Not much—but it’s there. In the way his hand stills. The way his breathing changes, almost imperceptibly.
“And now it’s gone,” she says, after a pause, her hand falling still. “And it feels like a second start.”
A beat.
“I guess it’s a third now.”
She huffs a small laugh. “Fair.”
“I don’t think it’s karma,” he says, voice low and steady. “You don’t deserve ill.”
She shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I did a lot of stupid shit, don’t you think?”
He rolls his eyes—gently, with practiced fondness. “Sorry, but I’m the expert on that one. I far outmatch you.”
There’s a flicker of mock annoyance in his tone. That familiar brand of dry defensiveness she always found a little too cute.
“But you seem to be handling those better than I am. Guess you got a bit lucky, huh?”
She winces the moment it’s out.
Way to go, girl.
“Well,” he says, with a small shrug you can hear more than see, “I guess I got at least a little lucky.”
“Shinji, I didn’t mean it like that, you know, it’s just a lot… and I, well, I’m sorry. It just feels sometimes like I didn’t really get the memo and—”
“Asuka. Look at me.”
She looks.
And finds his eyes already there, holding her like gravity, like breath, like belief. And in them, she sees something she hadn’t let herself hope for—something quiet and whole.
Deep. Steady. Unshakable.
The kind that makes you think maybe, just maybe, you get to stay.
You’re a good person, Asuka. No one will ever take that from you.”
She feels the sting behind her eyes and turns her gaze away, drifting to the other side.
“Don’t you think you can be a little too sweet sometimes?” she murmurs, but she already knows he’s there—close. She feels his body settle beside hers, warm and steady. His hand lifts, fingers brushing her cheek, tracing gentle, slow circles.
“I think I’m doing just fine. And yeah… maybe I am a bit lucky.”
“Why?”
He breathes out softly, voice low.
“Because after everything, I get to be alive…”
“And?”
“Why would there be an ‘and’?”
“There’s always an ‘and’ for the saccharine.”
He chuckles.
“Hmm. You really like to use weird words instead of saying ‘corny.’”
“So you know what that means?”
“Yeah. You’re not catching me with another Wall of Jericho.”
She laughs—light and easy, like sunlight spilling through leaves.
“And yeah, there is an ‘and.’”
“Hm?” she asks, eyes bright with quiet hope.
“I’m lucky to have you here.”
Her cheek rests gently in his hand, and she lets herself fully accept it—no resistance, no pretense. She barely even notices the small tear tracing a quiet path down her face.
She watches as his head tilts slowly toward hers, drawing closer with a deliberate tenderness. When their foreheads meet, the touch is soft and grounding. She smiles—small, fragile, but real—and feels him smile back against her skin.
Then his lips come down, gentle and warm, carrying a quiet promise. Soft, caring, alive.
New.
She accepts them.
“I love you so much.” Her eyes remain closed, but she feels the weight of his words, steady and true.
A tear slips from him, falling softly against her cheek.
She chuckles—soft, breathless—and more tears spill from her own eyes.
“So corny… I definitely love you more.”
Written by a human in Ellipsus.