I don't know if anyone is even waiting for this anymore since Antonym has been over for so long, but here it is by popular demand. This is the sequel to Antonym, so you should definitely read that before reading this. I'll also be using the manga timeline now since I've actually read it (though Antonym was vague enough that it could line up with either, so I don't think there will be any major problems).

Warnings for usual Tokyo Ghoul things (blood, mild gore, cannibalistic thoughts) and discussion of suicide, which is again a recurring theme.

Dedicated to all of my readers, but especially Delta Marauder, as our exchange was what really sowed the seeds for this.

"My life is a postwar story," Ken says at some point.

He says it to himself, because there's not really anybody else around he thinks would understand or appreciate what he's trying to say. Banjou and his tag-alongs aren't exactly well-read, and he has no interest in chatting with Tsukiyama more than necessary. Hinami is still too young to understand all of the underlying themes, the symbolism of events or characters, which just leaves him with himself.

Well, no, there is another option, says a dangerous inner voice, the same one that urges him to act rather than think, to destroy rather than run and eat when he isn't hungry, There is someone else.

Postwar stories are tragedies of a sort, he thinks. The one that sticks out the most prominently in his memory is something by Shotaro Yasuoka—the one where his father comes back from the war and everything gets worse—which he read in high school and distinctly remembers that he just didn't enjoy. He supposes he's always had a fondness for stories further removed from reality, like Murakami's Strange Library or any of Ranpo's ero-guro-nonsense short stories. It's why he enjoyed Sen Takatsuki's work so much; it was so gruesome and unsettling and unlike anything he ever encountered in his life.

He still likes her books. They've just lost the charm they had when he was an ordinary literature student and he didn't know what a person's mangled, bloody, partially-digested remains looked like yet.

Missing or incompetent fathers. Victimized mothers. Children forced to make a choice between the devil they know and the threatening unknown. These are all themes of postwar film and literature, things that Ken related to strongly that drove him to dislike it even more.

The antonym of relating to something, he thinks, Must be alienation.

Unable to sit still anymore, he throws on a jacket and heads for the door.

From the next room, he can hear the others whispering, worry seeping into their voices. "He's leaving again," Hinami says, "He's always going off by himself like this. Shouldn't we go with him?"

"He needs his space," he hears Tsukiyama say, "Let's leave him be for now."

There are a number of secrets Ken pretends he keeps from them, and they quietly allow him to believe it even though nobody is being fooled anymore. One of these things is his habit of returning to the 20th ward despite his insistence that he was leaving it behind for the benefit of those who still lived there. He knows they must have noticed by now, but he's careful to shake off anyone curious enough to follow by the time he actually gets to his destination, so there's at least one thing they aren't aware of.

He's been following Eika Ishihara on her way home from class for the past two months.

She hasn't noticed, either, always distracted and lost in her own head. He wonders if she's thinking about him and wondering where he went. He thinks about her, of course, about could have beens and should have beens, a hundred lost chances, all of her books, the way she destroyed her own hands, her scent. Ken doesn't want her to miss him, but he wouldn't mind if she kept the memories close, if she didn't forget about him. He wouldn't mind so much if that's what keeps her distracted.

But then he gets to thinking, what if? What if somebody else is also watching from the shadows? What if they try to sneak up on her or hurt her, and she just walks right towards them, oblivious to the danger the world around her poses? There is so much wrong with the world and so many monsters lurking in it; Ken knows that better than anyone now. They would take you, they would tie you down, they would take out their syringes and their pliers and their bone saws and they would hack you to pieces one chunk at a time, starting with your fingers and toes and ending with your mind, making you watch and pay attention, making you into something you weren't before.

Yamori took a wriggling centipede and put it in his ear before cupping his hands over it. The creature went towards the greatest source of warmth to make its burrow, and Ken screamed until his throat was raw. He could feel it inside of him, all legs and stinging bites, he could hear it scratching and digging around, its skittering like bees buzzing against his eardrum before it ate right through it, and he thinks he vomited the first time.

So Ken keeps going to the 20th ward, keeps stalking her route every day, and keeps her safe. He's lost so much, so many people, so much time, so much of himself; he's determined to put his losses behind him and focus on holding onto what he has, even if it is from a distance.

But tonight, he feels a little greedy.

He's always watching the back of her head, her hair that she's stopped braiding since the last time she saw him—not him, not really, not anymore, just the weak child he had been born as, the half-ghoul who hid himself in human skin and pretended the world was fair—and just that by itself had been enough for him. But Ken has acquired an impulsivity he'd never known before meeting Yamori, and sometimes, he just does things without thinking about them, or even remembering them.

Yamori took and took and took, and he just kept taking, trying to hollow Ken out until there was nothing left. He didn't realize that he gave, too, that he left behind so much of himself in the space he carved. The horrible, tainted, blood-soaked mess he poured into took the shape of its vessel, and Ken as he is now is what happened when it all hardened into jagged edge and warped surfaces.

So tonight, he goes ahead of the train to meet her, leaping across rooftops with the help of his kagune, and walks towards her instead of behind her for once, hoping he can see her face.

It's buried in a book.

Of course it is. He doesn't know why he's surprised. That's the way they met, after all. He glances instinctively at the cover, finding the title Zoo below the pen name Otsuichi, and he knows he's read it before, but he can't seem to remember what it's about. He doesn't read much for pleasure anymore.

He sees words on the wall on the inside of his head, but they seem to be painted on the insides of his eyelids, refusing to leave him alone even when he tries to sleep. He doesn't read them as much as he hears them, a voice that must be his own even though it's so distorted and broken, and it tells him to eat.

Her scent hits him a moment later, and Ken's eyes widen at all of the memories that come flooding back; walking her home, finding her at the edge of the road, playing the antonym game. It's sweet, so sweet that his eyes start to water.

So sweet he could just eat her.

But he won't. He would never do that. Even though Ken is not who he used to be, there are some things that have not, and will never, change.

He's so distracted that he reacts too slowly, unable to change his course from walking straight into her. A few months ago, he might have toppled over, but he hardly moves, coming to a complete stop and watching Eika stumble into the wall of the unlit storefront beside her. Zoo lands a few feet away, and he makes another impulsive decision, snatching it up before she notices. He hears a muttered apology as she straightens herself.

Ken freezes for only half of a second, berating himself for being seen, for letting her speak to him, for making physical contact.

Even if it was nice. Even if it was so, so nice. Eika wears her hair differently but she smells exactly the same. He could probably pick her out in a crowd, could probably find her like a bloodhound if all he had was a scrap of her clothing.

He reminds himself that he shouldn't be this close to her. "It's okay," he tells her hurriedly, already starting to leave, "Be careful." He doesn't hear any footsteps behind him, but he feels her eyes on his back. It's too late to make a quick getaway with his kagune unless he wants to really screw this up. He lets out a quiet sigh when he hears her take a step in the opposite direction, but she suddenly stops and speaks again.

"Excuse me, do I know you?"

The words are hesitant. She isn't sure. Ken keeps his back to her; he shouldn't be here, shouldn't have said anything to her, because now there are all sorts of things he wants to say. "Do I seem familiar?" he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Yes," she says, though pauses afterwards. "Maybe you just remind me of someone I read about recently."

Ken tries to calm down. This is his cue to tell her to take care and leave. He opens his mouth. "Really? You remind me of someone from a book, too." What comes out isn't at all what he's supposed to say. "Rather, you remind me of his antonym."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, straight from the walls and insides of his eyes, and he notices things, hears her sharp intake of breath, her heart rate increasing, her scent becoming even more pronounced. Hopeful, he thinks, she's hopeful. She's wanted to see him as much as he's wanted to see her. He'd rather stay, rather sit and talk like they used to, about books or life or anything, really, but he's made enough stupid, impulsive decisions for one day.

He allows himself just one more.

With a swiftness only ghouls can possess, he turns on his heel and closes the distance between them, giving himself only a second to take in her face—glasses framing wide eyes that slowly soften, clear and beautiful and human—before he leans in and presses his lips against hers. Eika smells good, but she tastes even better, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint he has to pull away, unfurling his rinkaku to launch himself onto the nearest rooftop.

He doesn't want to go, but he promised himself that he would take care of everything that's precious to him without getting too close. He would watch over Eika from a distance, because that way, he could make sure nothing hurt her. Not other humans, not ghouls.

Not even him.

He carves the promise into his brain, a constant reminder on the wall of spoken words in his conscious mind; he will not get any closer than strictly necessary. Despite everything that's changed, he thinks he can manage that.

From the Brink of Despair: A Memoir receives glowing reviews for its unique style, compelling narrative and uplifting message. Eika Ishihara is all smiles during her first book signing and all subsequent talks she gives around campus, but she feels like she's sleepwalking, like none of it's real and she's sure to wake up soon. She's not really thinking about her book at all, not when her professor congratulates her on her successful publishing, or when she's invited to her old high school to give a talk, or when she has a television appearance.

What she's thinking of are her regrets, and to keep a smile on her face and a spring in her step, she focuses on the ones that hurts the least.

The talk show host, a middle-aged woman who looks surprised when Eika walks in, like she was expecting someone taller, crosses her legs and rests her hands in her lap where a copy of Eika's memoir is resting. "Miss Ishihara, it's a pleasure to have you here with us today," she says pleasantly, and Eika settles into the chair across from her.

"Thank you, it's a pleasure to be here," Eika says hollowly, because she's not sure that it really is.

The host asks a few leading questions about her book before switching to what Eika knew was coming, the hot topic lately for literary critics and gossip columnists alike. "Now, I'm sure you've been asked about this before, but I hoped we could talk a little bit about one of the middle sections," the host says, flipping through her copy, "In the chapter where you get coffee while planning your suicide, you meet a young man who stops to talk to you about the book you were reading. You're so thrown off that you put off your plans, and become a regular at the coffee shop just so you can see him. He also saves your life later on."

Eika holds the host's gaze, waiting for it.

"But your critics have pointed out that, as important as this boy is, you never give his name nor do you ever describe him," she continues, "And you never tells us what happened to him. After the recovery chapter, he's only mentioned in passing, and you never speak to him again. Some people have said you made him up to add a romance subplot!"

There's a light chuckle in the studio audience, and Eika allows herself a small smile.

"So let's set the record straight," the host says, setting the book down and meeting her eyes eagerly, "What's up with this mysterious young man? Is he made up for the story? Was he meant to be a metaphor for something? Or did you imagine someone to keep you going during the really hard times?"

Eika glances briefly at the audience members holding their collective breath. "The truth is," she says, "He's real. I've answered this question a lot already, but people keep asking. It's strange to me that he's the most controversial part of the book, though." She smiles down at her hands, fingertips wrapped in bandages, a new habit to fight an old one. "If he knew that, he'd probably be embarrassed."

The host laughs good-naturedly. "I see," she says, "But if he's real, then why don't you tell us more about him? He's such an important figure in the book—and surely, your life—and yet he just breezes in and out without any explanation. There's no closure, no love confessions, nothing."

"I have personal reasons for withholding his name and information about him. As for his sudden appearance and disappearance…" Eika glances at the camera, wondering if Ken is out there somewhere, watching, "Well, it's a memoir. I wrote it just as it really happened."