I felt an overwhelming wave of sickness wash over me. After the bath, I can barely recall how I made my way back to Shanks's room. The details are a blur, distorted like a dream slipping away upon waking. All I know is that I craved the comforting weight of a pile of blankets, as if they could shield me from the turmoil swirling inside my mind. It was as if my body were instinctively shutting down, retreating into a cocoon of warmth and softness.
I yearned to fall asleep, to escape into the oblivion of slumber as I had before, when nightmares didn't haunt me like shadows in the night. Sleep was my sanctuary—a place where I didn't have to feel anything at all, where I could exist in quietude without the incessant worry that I was an unwelcome presence in the lives of those around me. It was as if I were playing a role, pretending to be dead to the world, hoping that perhaps, if I vanished from their perceptions, my burdens would lighten.
What's even more confusing is that Shanks never forces his feelings on me. In fact, he seems remarkably indifferent to whether I return his affection, as if his only desire is to express his emotions freely. He showers me with love and tends to my needs without expecting anything in return. Even when we share a living space, like when I sleep in his room, he often isn't there. It's a peculiar feeling, akin to a magpie in a cuckoo's nest, feeling out of place and unsure of my worth.
As I ponder this dynamic, unsettling thought creeps in: I can't shake the sensation that I'm like a leech, drawing from him something vital and precious while ultimately harming him in the process. I can't help but wonder if I truly deserve his unwavering affection, his genuine care, and the love he so freely offers.
It didn't help that his heartfelt confession had forced me to revisit and reflect on our interactions over the past couple of years. I thought back to the countless moments he specifically carved out just for me, moments that felt like treasures amidst our busy lives. He made sure I was never scheduled to work. He would always meet my needs with a thoughtfulness that left me feeling cherished.
I remembered the way he would appear with new books in hand or exciting craft materials, eager to indulge my interests whenever we landed somewhere to rest and restock our supplies. It was as if he had an innate understanding of what would bring me joy. The whole crew must have noticed, given the way his gaze softened into something serene and gentle whenever he looked at me. It was in those quiet moments that I felt his warmth envelop me, especially when I was still half asleep, caught between dreams and reality.
Shanks was so incredibly caring, yet I had been oblivious to the deep feelings he held for me until he finally summoned the courage to voice them. Looking back, I realized there had been so many subtle hints—it made me feel somewhat foolish for not recognizing them sooner. Each glance, each kind gesture, had been a piece of the puzzle, and I couldn't help but wish that I had seen the whole picture earlier.
Once, I often found myself grappling with uncertainty about how he treated me. I could sense a distinct difference in how he interacted with me compared to the rest of the crew. He seemed to understand my idiosyncrasies, accommodating my quirks in a way that made me feel both unique and deeply vulnerable. It became apparent to me why he acted this way, yet, at the same time, it caused a pang of sadness in my heart.
Why did I have to feel so different? Why couldn't I embody the same ease and joy that they did, so they wouldn't have to walk on eggshells around me? It frustrated me that my quirks—my tendency toward gloomy introspection and my quiet demeanor—created a barrier, making others worry about how to engage with me or change themselves to do so.
I often found myself questioning why I was like this. I hated feeling so out of place, so burdened by my own emotions. I yearned to experience happiness as effortlessly as they seemed to, but navigating toward that joy felt insurmountable. Sure, I could manage a laugh or a smile, but it felt as if each smile demanded the same energy as running a marathon. Social interactions often felt like an exhausting chore, leaving me drained and wishing I could be my authentic self without the burden. This struggle with my own identity truly troubled me, and I hated that I felt this way.
Tears began to well in my eyes, a stubborn ache in my chest threatening to overflow. I quickly turned away, burying my face into the soft pillow, desperate to hide the evidence of my pain. I didn't want Shanks to see me like this; he seemed so genuinely invested in my happiness, and the thought of disappointing him felt unbearable. But the truth was, I felt lost, trapped in a storm of emotions that I couldn't quite comprehend.
How could I possibly embrace happiness when I was drowning in self-loathing? It seemed impossible to reconcile my existence with joy. Every breath felt like a burden, a reminder that I was still here, still alive, when part of me wished I could vanish. I struggled internally, questioning my worth and whether I truly deserved love or happiness. The darkness whispered cruelly that I was unworthy, as if simply existing was a privilege I hadn't earned. How could anyone love someone who felt so broken? In that moment, I felt utterly defeated, caught in a cycle of despair that left me feeling hopelessly trapped.
"Sweetheart, dinner's ready!" Shanks called out, swinging the door open with his usual exuberance. My entire body tensed at the sound of his voice, a mix of frustration and dread washing over me. Why did he have to show up now, of all times? It felt as if the universe was conspiring to play a cruel joke on me. Just when I had been desperately trying to hide my spiraling thoughts, he appeared, utterly oblivious to my turmoil.
"No," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, resolutely rejecting the idea of rising from my cocoon of blankets. I wasn't ready to face him—or anyone else—with the gloomy cloud of self-pity hovering over me. I tried to stifle the feelings of disappointment and shame, but a slight sniffle escaped, betraying my attempt to keep it all in. Panic washed over me as I realized I had unwittingly given Shanks a clue about my state.
"Kouya, sweetheart, please come out," he called again, a warmth in his tone that only made my heart pound louder. The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine, reminding me of a child caught sneaking cookies out of the jar—full of guilt and vulnerability.
"No," I whispered once more, burying my face deeper into the plush comforter, as if it could shield me from the world outside.
"Sweetheart, it's okay. Just give me a hug," Shanks coaxed softly, his voice enveloping me like a gentle embrace. He moved closer, the sound of his weight shifting on the bed causing an involuntary flutter in my stomach.
"Please," I whimpered. The thought 'don't make me come out' heavy in my mind, my heart racing as I clung tightly to the sheets, desperate to remain hidden.
"It's alright, Kouya, love. Just give me a hug," he said again, his tone tender and reassuring. As he settled down next to me, the bed shifted under his weight, and I felt the undeniable pull of his presence.
Before I could protest or come up with a more convincing argument, I suddenly found myself lifted effortlessly into his lap. Shanks had wrapped me up in a warm embrace, burritoed in the blankets, and held me firmly against him. My heart raced as I melted into his hold, feeling both safe and utterly exposed in the moment.
The weight of using Shanks's love tugged heavily at my heart, a feeling that was almost painful in its intensity. I often found myself wishing I could love him as deeply as I felt I should. Yet there remained an insurmountable barrier within me. Even when I did care for him, a haunting thought lingered: if faced with the choice of life or death, I would still choose to free myself without hesitation. This internal struggle left me feeling conflicted, as my emotions battled against the stark reality of my own self-loathing.
I wish I could love Shanks the way he loved me.