I remember it as if it were yesterday.
Decades have passed, and that night still burns like a fresh wound.
I hatched in a human home. Warm hands helped me break the shell. He cleaned me, fed me, held me close. I grew into a healthy Kirlia with a place to belong.
He let me sleep beside him.
He read stories aloud—not that I understood the words, only the warmth in his voice.
Once, when I was sick, I remember a sensation:
A brush of lips against my palm.
I don't remember much else—just that tiny anchor that kept me from fading. I woke to his arms around me, tight, protective. At that moment, I believed I mattered to him.
I believed...
He wanted me.
His name was the first word I learned.
Rin.
My world. My master. The one I thought would never leave.
But I was wrong.
When our journey began, he made me fight. At first, I didn't understand. If another Pokémon ran or if I fainted mid-battle, he grew frustrated.
I fought harder.
I wanted him to be proud.
I wanted to be enough.
But the others were bigger. Stronger. Scarier. Sometimes I hid behind him, trembling, seeking comfort that never came.
He only grew colder.
"Why are you so weak?"
He threw the Pokéball at me in anger—not to protect me, but to punish. That pain was worse than any battle.
Then, one night, he set the Pokéball beside me.
"I need to go somewhere," he said.
And he walked away.
I stayed on the rock where he left me.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The wind stopped carrying his scent.
The sun stopped warming the stone beneath me.
Eventually, the truth struck:
"He's not coming back."