This is story I've been working on for the past several weeks now, so I apologize if I didn't have time to upload any other stories. This one, I just really wanted to write.

This is not an interesting story by any means; it's story that tells a life of a person who can't be accepted for who he is. I wrote this in the perspective of a person who can't come out to anyone due to the fear of rejection and isolation. I don't identify myself as a homosexual, so there might be some descriptions that may offend some; in which case, I am terribly sorry and I hope you understand that this was just my interpretation of it.

I am, however, asexual and I know the feeling of no one understanding you and telling you "it's just a phase and I'm going to find someone soon." What I find completely bullshit with that line is that they are immediately assuming that I just haven't found someone yet. It's my fucking life and they should have no right in saying what they want from me. I can be with whomever I want to be, even if it's with no one at all.

But back to the point. This story hits a little close to home, which is why it took some time to finalize, but for those who do read this story to the very end, I hope you enjoy it and tell me what you think.

Like I said, this is not an interesting story but a coming-of-age one instead. It follows Midorima's story through narrative, his personal back story that no one knew before, and how he is unable to be himself. This, I'm sure, is a story that many of us can relate to, so I hope you are able to feel the same emotions I've felt while writing this.

Heads up:

Trigger warning: implied parental abuse and suicide.

There will be no explanation of how Takao got into a coma. That's not the main focus of the story; it's Midorima we should be focusing on and his story. Maybe in the near future, I'll write another chapter for this on Takao's perspective. Tell me if you'd like that.

Hope you all enjoy :)

"May I go in?"

"Go ahead. We'll inform you when five minutes have passed."

I realized I was different from my family when I was four.

I was a single child, no siblings to keep my company, no pets to have around because both my parents were allergic to fur. I didn't mind having any animals; I got scratched by a street cat once, so my hatred for furry animals should be pretty explanatory. I was, however, very saddened when I heard that I would have no one to call my blood and relative. At that age, I never had the sensation of going up to my younger brother or sister, asking them what was wrong and if their big brother could do anything to protect them.

I never had warmth in my family.

My parents were very busy people. My father was a university professor, teaching not only chemistry but also physics. He had a PhD in both, it appeared, so it was evident from the get-go that he wouldn't settle for anyone lower than he. My mother was a very famous lawyer in Japan; she would win case after case, no matter how difficult or evidence-stacked it was. She would always find a way to stir the case in her direction, and she always did it with a calm demeanor, never jumping to conclusions, never letting her emotions get the best of her when the other lawyer was close to ripping their hair out.

At the time, when my parents met each other coincidentally at my father's university, it seemed like a match from heaven. They were two professionally educated, adequately sophisticated, and obviously craving for sexual attraction. At the time, it seemed like destiny that the two would meet so out of the blue.

(That sounds so much like you, Shin-chan. You're always talking about destiny. Do you never think of anything else?)

At the time, they had no idea how haphazardly hard it would be to actually keep a relationship without ruining their jobs, much less have a child and have it wreck not only their schedules, but their routines as well. Once they realized that I would be a trouble to deal with, they decided not to have another child for the sake of their jobs.

But now, I'm just diverging from the topic I wanted to talk about. My parents, however, are crucial in mentioning because they have impacted my life significantly.

(What happened?)

("I would rather not tell the story of parents at the moment. I have no time.")

But back to where I was. I realized I was different from the rest of my family when I stumbled upon a dusty television up in the attic of our then united home. I was only four; it was only natural that I, as a four year old boy who never had time to go out much due to the amount of homework given to him by his parents, could have such an insatiable curiosity.

While my parents were out, I began walking around the house to see if there was anything I could lay my hands on. This is a particularly memorable moment in my life, mind you, so impactful that even now, I remember that specific memory at the age of four.

I believe it was also the time when I mastered walking without falling. My parents never had time to teach me because they were always busy with their work. Sometimes, a babysitter would make sure I didn't make a mess of the house; she was a petite, small girl, probably a high schooler who needed money and would kill to be with her friends and boyfriend than to be with a messy, disheveled baby like me. There were times when she wouldn't be home until right before my parents arrived, saying she took great care of me and take home money she didn't deserve.

Why do people do this, anyways? Why do we believe that we deserve everything in the world when all we have given it is harm and malice? Why do we take and never give?

(Shin-chan, you're getting all philosophical again.)

("Sorry.")

I'm straying again. I only have a few minutes left. I should get to the point.

While my parents were out, I took my time roaming the house I've been living in for a few years now but never had the chance to fully understand. I found myself seeing a flight of stairs I had never embarked on before. Our house apparently had three floors, one for the living room and kitchen, one for the bedrooms, and one for the attic. I never knew that because whenever I strayed from where I was supposed to be — the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, my bedroom, never my parents' — I would always get pulled back by my own consciousness from the constant fear that my parents would scold me if I were to do something they didn't like. So I never knew there was a flight of stairs until the curious cat was killed and I finally decided that my endless craving for knowledge was more inevitable than the pain I would get later on.

(Did they hit you, Shin-chan?)

("I'm straying too much. I have no time.")

I gingerly climbed the stairs, careful not to fall backwards because then, my head would've surely cracked and my parents would've definitely known that I was a bad child, and would later abandon me. Thankfully, I reached the top of my journey without any injury.

I remember it being dark, so dark my toddler eyes were sure that they would meet a ghost that would haunt the house for months time, and I was petrified of moving further on. I believe I still had more time before my parents arrived home and it was obvious my babysitter wouldn't come today, seeing as though it was already five and she was supposed to come at three, so I was alone and still had so much to explore.

My chubby legs, trembling, moved forward, my fat hands shaking against one another, and my face barely glowing from the light downstairs. I remember stumbling on something that made me fall to the ground, scraping my knee slightly. I was almost going to cry. It's a mentally taxing image, I know. I'm not one to cry at all, and yet, that small painful stab on my knee was enough to make me sniffle and have a few droplets of tears leak.

But then, I saw it. There was a gleam at the end of the attic, and I could see it because the light downstairs seemed to shine directly on it. Forgetting the pain on my knee — which I never should have forgotten about because I ended up getting scolded after all. My mother, sharp eyes she had, saw the small red bump on my knee and immediately demanded where I had been that day. I had no choice but to tell her because no matter what I did to try and avert the situation, she would always direct me right back with her technological, complex words. I was banned from going up the attic again because both my parents feared that I would become too distracted and focus less on my work.

(Why take such drastic measures?)

The reason why they believed I would become too distracted was simple: it was because right there, at the very edge of the attic, laid an antique television with so much dust there was a cloud of it right in my face when I blew on it. The cords were obviously unplugged, but even then I knew that every room was bound to have an outlet so, with great difficulty, I found one while blindly touching the walls of the attic.

Immediately, there was a flash of bright light and I was dazed by the suddenness of it. Rubbing my eyes quickly to get the small white blob out of the way of my view, I saw, to my wonder. some female characters changing from one set of clothing to another. At the time I had no idea I was watching a famous anime, but it was enough to get me curious to watch more and figure just what the television was illustrating to me.

(Are you really trying to describe Sailor Moon without actually saying the title, Shin-chan? Really? Oh man, my stomach!)

It was interesting, to say the least. These female characters who had suddenly changed after a white light covered their bodies were saving the world with supernatural powers. In hindsight, it shouldn't have been something remotely interesting to a high-standard person like me but back then, I couldn't take my eyes off the action and motion of it.

For a moment, I was terrified. What if my parents found out I liked this kind of thing? Of course, I still got caught in the end, but back then, I was genuinely scared for my wellbeing. What if, by watching this, I would end up idiotic and my parents would kick me out? What if I lost every kind of information I acquired from the homework because my mind would immediately replace one image with the other? I almost stopped watching it as soon as I thought this because the anxiety wouldn't lessen, but then, before I could turn it back off, my eyes widened, my heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't stop waiting for that specific male character I laid my eyes on to come out of the screen again.

Thankfully, at that age, I wasn't smart enough to realize what that feeling was. I didn't touch upon it while I was confessing my sins to my parents and they also didn't realize it then because I myself hadn't. If I had, at that tender age, my mother would have surely picked it up and who knows what would've happened then. Even now, my whole body shudders at the memory.

(Shin-chan…)

But I knew I was different. I knew there was something wrong with me. Because at the age of four, I realized that I was more ecstatic seeing the male character than the female ones.

"I'm sorry, but five minutes have passed. We have to ask you to leave."

"Don't worry, I was already on my way out. I'll come tomorrow again as well."

"Five minutes again?"

"If you'd like, we can give you ten."

"Ten minutes would be perfect."

I realized my mistake when I was seven. My mistake of ever trusting my parents with something so private, so intimate, so wrong.

Throughout the years of my discovery, I played it relatively cool in front of my parents. Just like my mother, I had mastered the art of the poker face, never letting my emotions get the best of me and always letting the opponent know that nothing they threw could push me down.

At this point, my parents were barely around, much less together. My father was getting busier as he decided to try and get a PhD in biology while still teach his students to get all A's in his class. My mother was down-poured with case after case and she would never, even with the risk of her health and sanity, reject an offer that would further increase her reputation as the best lawyer in Japan. Their schedules were packed, barely had any time to even breathe, and I was left alone for almost my entire childhood.

(If destiny had helped us then, right, Shin-chan? I would've always been with you.)

They stopped hiring the female babysitter when I was five and I ended up making a mess in the kitchen. It wasn't intentional by any means; on the contrary, there was passage I was reading from my reading comprehensions worksheet and it talked about how children who prepared a meal for their parents after a long day of tiring work would alleviate any kind of pent up stress and would strengthen their familial relations to an enormous degree. Naturally, I was bound to try.

My family was always broken. However, at the age of seven, I didn't know then. More so at the age of five. I always assumed that since I was a naturally troubling child, I was the one responsible for their never seeing both me and each other anymore. At least when I was four, they would always meet a one or two hours before the clock struck eleven to go out a bit for some fresh air. Now, it was as though time wouldn't stop rushing.

The clock almost striking seven, a few hours after my babysitter was supposed to arrive and take care of me, I began to roam around the kitchen and took out a few ingredients to make an omelet, just like the passage had done. Mind you, I had no idea what an omelet even looked like but it was the one food that was mentioned in the reading and that helped an insignificantly small family grow stronger, so I took whatever I could hold in my tiny hands. I was also very short, my being a five year old toddler back then, so I couldn't even see the top of the table.

(Shin-chan being short? I can't imagine it!)

("I was only five years old at that time.")

I realized soon but not quickly enough how much of a mistake it was for this toddler to even fathom how to cook when he couldn't even reach the top half of the entire kitchen. And yet, I was resolved to mend my family the only way a five year old who had no guardian to look over him could: by hurting myself terribly.

(Shin-chan, what did you do?)

In my mind, an omelet consisted of milk, a potato, a cucumber, and a variety of unknown powders that I could actually reach to grab. While I don't remember the other three, I do know that one of the powders was flour, which could only mean so many clouds of white, snowy specks spreading across the room. And in my mind, I needed to use the oven, which was also the only fire inducing palate I could use. In a large mixing bowl, I poured all the milk, gradually mixed in the unknown powders, and plopped the potato and cucumber in before realizing that I needed to slice them into tiny bits first. It was common sense, really; never before had I seen a meal where an entire potato was served, just like that.

So, trying to remember where all the knives were, I hastily pulled one out and didn't have the slightest clue on what I was doing. I had a butcher knife, a very commonly used tool for cutting thick slices of meat, and used it to try and cut nice, thin pieces of the potato and cucumber. Thankfully, even I wasn't dumb enough to have my fingers caught in the mess, but I was pretty close. The knife was too heavy for my small, chubby, five-year old hands.

The problem occurred when I needed to put my mixture into the oven. By the time my parents arrived home, my babysitter, who had arrived a few minutes before they did, was hurriedly trying to wipe the blood on my face and clean the exploded oven mess I had made. Turns out, the bowl I used to put my mixture in was metal, and because the material heated up rapidly under the intense energy, the bowl caught on fire and promptly exploded the kitchen. The oven flew open and I was standing right in front of it, so the impact of the suddenly opening oven door hit my forehead and my head cracked big enough to have blood pour out.

(Is that why you never cut your bangs shorter? Because there's a scar that you don't want anyone to see?)

("That moment is not a particularly happy memory. It reminds me of what could have been. I would rather not be reminded of it.")

(Then why are you telling me?)

I was immediately transported to a nearby hospital, one of the best actually, and it wasn't until after I woke up from the anesthesia that I saw the screaming from my parents outside the room. There was a window in front of me, a big one that covered most of the wall, and I saw my father being held down by several doctors and my mother glaring so intensely, it really looked like looks could kill. For a second, I believed that the monstrous anger my parents were radiating was for me because I had once again messed with their schedule and just caused them more trouble.

But then I saw the person kneeling in front of them, tears running down her cheeks, face red and swollen, and unable to lift her head high enough to face the wrath of my parents. Her hands were to her sides, skirt riding up her legs because of its short length, and trembling so badly many nurses were torn between checking up on her and staying out of the fight.

My father seemed to be shouting. I couldn't hear what he was saying because my room was apparently soundproof, preventing me from listening in, but the look on my father's eyes were terrifying. So terrifying, I myself began to cry. Then, a doctor, who must've noticed my awakening, came into the room and he was, to my memory, the most beautiful person I had ever met. His snow white doctor's robe perfectly contrasted against his slightly tanned skin, his chocolate brown eyes so soft it could melt you, and his body complexion so confident and tall that your first instinct would always be to run your hands over his back. At the age of five, I never knew that what I was feeling then was sexual attraction; in fact, because I was only five and he was a man, the same gender as I was, I truly believed that that feeling I had in my stomach was only respect and wonder.

(Is that why you wanted to be a doctor? Was he your first love?)

("At the moment I had no idea.")

My face must have been red for because the doctor approached me with a kind, soothing, handsome smile and asked me if I was feeling well enough to try and sit up. I nodded, not trusting my voice at the moment, and slowly did as the doctor said, meanwhile his hand on my back, patting me gently, and it almost felt like butterfly kisses.

I wanted to ask him his name, ask him what was wrong outside, but his hand was on my forehead, checking my temperature and something stung the side of my head. The doctor must have noticed because he sat right beside me, drawing a chair that was behind him, and took my hand with care, as if to tell me everything was going to be ok.

He told me there was an accident in the kitchen. The oven door flung open and the impact I received was mostly on the side of my head. My skull was cracked open and I was unconscious when both my parents and babysitter came. Thankfully, I got medical attention before it was too late, before I died from blood loss or received brain damage from the clustering blood vessels. He told me I would have to stay in the hospital for a few weeks to let it fully heal; I wasn't supposed to walk around without a guardian nor was I supposed to exert myself with exercise or otherwise.

And while this beautiful doctor was talking, my parents unknowingly rushed in, crying and hugging me with a love I never knew they had for me. They were actually worried for me; it was the first time since my years as a toddler where I truly felt loved.

(Surely there must have been other moments that you don't remember, Shin-chan. No parent should ignore their child.)

It wasn't long before they let me go, but that was only because the doctor informed them that they should be careful with my current state. The babysitter was waiting outside, peering into the room with a terrified face on her, her fingers gripping the side of the door and eyes barely visible under her long bangs, and my father, who had recently been held back due to his uncontrollable anger, marched up to her and told her with a calm face that if she didn't return all the money they had given her for the past year, they would take her to court and make sure to put her in jail.

His last words to her were to never come back to the house again. And just like that, I never saw her again. She paid back all the money she had received through mail and her parents even came once to our home to respectfully apologize for the mess their daughter had caused.

I stayed in the hospital for more than I needed to. Actually, I stayed in that hospital for exactly two years, until I was seven years old. I could leave a few weeks after the accident; while the injury was still healing, it was only so long before I had to go back to my house and begin all the late work that was assigned to me by my parents. I was seriously injured but that didn't stop them from pushing me forward, ahead of everybody else, and I wasn't even in school yet. I had a year before kindergarten officially started and my parents wanted me to get a head start on every subject.

Even after leaving the hospital, I always went back. During my time in the hospital recovering, the same doctor with his beautiful chocolate brown eyes would always visit me, always check up on me, always keep me company. He sometimes used to stay with me in the night because he knew what it was like to be lonely. We used to tell funny stories, or any stories at all, until I would slowly drift away into sleep. I would always feel the slight pat on my head before I was completely gone, and I knew that I was completely infatuated with him.

So infatuated that when my father came to take me back home, I begged him if I could return again. I never, not once in my toddler life, begged to my parents. It was unsightly; many times I walked the streets of Japan, noticing and ignoring the people whose backs were curled up, whose clothes screamed dirty, and whose faces illustrated death and a depressing reluctance to live again.

I absolutely hated begging, but with the doctor's face still popping up in my mind, I let my selfishness take over me and begged my father to let me stay in the hospital every time both of them left home. My father, reluctant at first, had a talk with my mother when she returned from another case closed. They talked silently at first and then called me over. With a serious tone, my mother asked why on Earth did I want to go back to the hospital even though I wasn't sick anymore. At five, I still didn't know what I was feeling inside whenever I thought about the doctor. So, as a stupid five year old, I told them an excuse that could surely substitute sexual attraction.

A doctor, I told them, I want to see the doctor. I want to know more about him and what he does and how he makes everyone feel so safe and happy. A doctor was what I aspired to be. And my parents loved the idea so much that they rung the same doctor to see if he was available for such a short notice babysitting job. And he said yes.

Throughout those years, those two blissful years, I got know more not only of the doctor, but of the profession as well. I began to understand the different mechanics a doctor had and the skills they needed to acquire to be in such a high position. They needed to go through extensive training, rigorous and harsh, competitive to the point of no survival, and still shine bright enough to finally achieve their goal.

Even though I was infatuated greatly with the doctor whose name still escapes me, I truly began to have another place in my heart for the profession of a doctor. I was intrigued, amazed, and understandably awed when I found and touched the calluses on the doctor's hands as he patted my head a different way so that I could could feel the rough patches.

He told me these were battle scars well-earned because it meant that he had saved not only a life but also a whole family. He told me that these calluses, earned from hours and hours of gripping the same metallic tool so strenuously as to not let his hand tremble even the slightest, were all worth it in the end because every time he got out of the operation room and told those waiting outside with praying hands that everything would be alright, they would smile and he would truly feel like a savior, as someone important.

(A doctor's presence is like Heaven on Earth. You wouldn't have hope unless you believed in them. They make everyone feel alive. And vice versa.)

My relationship with the doctor consisted of my going to the hospital every day after school ended, and he would always be there for me when I arrived. He would always wait in front of the hospital lobby, his hand in his uniform pocket and his eyes brightening whenever he saw the green-haired little boy run up to him with glee. I can't recount the days I spent with him because I'm slowly losing the time I have and I can barely remember him as it is. It's been too long and I'll have to wrap this up as soon as I can.

So here it goes.

By the time I was seven, I was already in too deep. My school and my extra homework had given me enough hints to let me know just what I was feeling inside. I was different, I already knew, but I didn't know it would be such a big deal to love someone.

So, I told my parents because they were the only two people I knew that must have felt this same kind of passionate love some time throughout their lives. Surely they would know how to help me in understanding this feeling even further, to the extent in which I could control it and use it to my advantage.

And yet, when I told them that I loved the doctor who had been taking care of me for the past two years, when I told them these illicit feelings I was harboring for a person of the same gender, instead of hugging me and telling me we would get through it together, their first instinct was to simply slap me in the cheek and tell me how much of a devil's child I was.

(Shin-chan…)

My father was the one who did it. And he began to hurt me in ways I never could have imagined a parent doing. My mother did nothing; from the corner of my eye, she was merely petrified by the words I had uttered. As my father began to kick my seven year old stomach, telling, shouting, screaming at me to change my ways before it was too late, my mother did nothing. She didn't even dare to look me in the eye as she walked away from scene bestowed upon her. She left me to be tended to my father, who, with a mad glint in his eyes, took me by the shirt and told me to never be different again, to never sin again.

And it was then that I realized at the age of seven just how severe my mistake of telling my parents of a love I never knew I had was. By the time my father was done with me, my heart was immediately starting to clench; all I ever dreamed of was to make my family proud, make my family loving again. And due to this miscalculation I had made about myself and my orientation, everything started falling apart faster than I could have ever imagined.

"I'm sorry, the ten minutes are up."

"Don't worry. I was finishing up anyways. I'll come again."

"Five minutes this time, sorry. You came a bit late today. Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I was making some preparations and time seemed to skip over. I'm grateful for these five minutes. Thank you."

I realized how broken my family was at the age of ten. It was the year my parents finally separated and moved on.

I believe everything started going downhill after the awful realization that I was more than a troubling child, I was actually a devil's pawn. My father refused to look at me for a few months after my confession, even on the birthday when the only acknowledgement he gave me was a small glance. I had no birthday cake, no a fancy meal, or any meal at all for that matter, and I remember spending that day alone, longing for some company, longing for the doctor whom I had not seen since then.

My father refused to let me out of the house, the only exception being school. That way, I would never be able to assume those dark, sinful thoughts ever again. My father took precautions so analytically complex and well-thought out; he made sure I never had any human contact whatsoever. He told my teachers to force me to be alone for the entire school year by never letting me out to recess, by always making me sit alone when I was normally supposed to sit with a partner just like the rest of the class, and by never, underhand circumstance, letting me near another boy. For the almost entirety of my primary school days, I was always alone. No one would come near me, no one would bother to look at me, no one would understand the pain I was feeling. The feeling of absolute loneliness.

Rumors spread, even at such a tender age. Sometimes, I would sneak out of the classroom when the teacher wasn't around because I was so deprived of human contact. My parents were rarely around anymore; I spent my entire childhood alone.

Many didn't want to talk to me, most didn't even want to look at me. There was word that the one child who never went out of the classroom was possessed by a demon and those who looked at him in the eye would also get possessed. There was another comment that said that the child who never talked in the class except to answer questions was dirty and anyone who got touched by him would also get contaminated. And there was a rumor that the devil's child walking among them was nothing more than a fag.

(How do these children even know these kinds of words, Shin-chan? Where did they get it from? Why did you just take it?)

("What else could a six, seven year old have done? I was only so young and naive.")

I could have taken the constant ignorance, the constant looks, but that one word, the word fag, was enough to stop me every single time. I didn't know the actual meaning; nevertheless, it always ruined my heart a little bit more every day. Not only was I alone, I was also stereotyped, objectified, stripped of what little identity I had. I didn't know what I was, who I was; I didn't know the wrong I was doing. But I knew that whatever it was, I needed to stop it. I needed to change myself before I was completely deprived. I needed to hide the one thing that defined me as me. So that's what I did.

(You can't change who you are.)

("Trying to get out of loneliness is more motivating than one might think.")

A decision I should have regretted for an eternity past was, at that time, completely justified. By the time I was nine, my father began to treat me like his own son again. He started letting me go out of my house more often, stopped hiring a babysitter for me who would constantly surveillance my actions and movements, began trusting me more. By the time I was nine and I had completely crushed my orientation from both my parents and myself, I was able to hold his hand again. I was able to take his hand while crossing the road, grab his hand when I almost slipped from an icy puddle, and hold his hand for just the mere recognition that I was finally getting someone back in my life. I was finally getting my family back.

At least, that was what I had thought at the age of nine. But after I turned ten, everything split. My family, my life, my identity; everything I knew was part of myself was split into two and I had absolutely no idea which side was the right one. I didn't know which side to choose to make both my parents happy. I had never even considered my own.

When I turned ten, I was old enough to run an errand for my parents. I was given the task of buying some cereal for myself for the next few days like always and also flowers for my parents to decorate the house. It was an odd request that my mother assigned me before leaving the house early in the morning. In a small post-it note, she asked that I buy food to sustain myself and to bring some black, white, and red bouquet of flowers specifically for that day.

Having such busy parents, I was almost always alone. By then, I was so used to it that having one of my parents come just a few minutes earlier than schedule would surprise me greatly. Having such busy parents, it was understandable that they would never have the time to teach me the necessary skills to live alone.

While I was still visiting the hospital, I learned how to cook simple, harmless food to keep me going like making some rice balls or even flipping a pancake in a child-sized oven. Some nurses took me under their wing and let me use an easy-bake oven sometimes, some bought me food from convenience stores and taught me the different materials used to make such a product, and some were even able to teach me how to cook with tools. I was supposed to learn how to cook more professionally later on from the nurses — we had promised each other — but by then, the damage had been done and we all knew that if the nurses or doctors had seen the bruises covering parts of my skin, I would merely end up with more.

So I stopped going entirely. I mean, my father in general didn't let me leave the house, but even without that rule, I would have felt extremely embarrassed to go either way. The nurses were probably waiting for me, the doctor probably wanted to know what had happened to cause this sudden stop, but I couldn't face them. Not when I was the main problem to the entire situation. I can't even remember the countless of times my father repeated how much of a devil's child I was, how much of a stupid child I was.

(Shin-chan, you're not stupid.)

I am not stupid.

I never was, and I never will be. But back then, I was scared. Scared that I was truly stupid, that I only lived to disappoint time and time again, that I was only there to haunt my parents of the mistake they had made. I was scared that I was a mistake, that I truly wasn't meant to exist because my life, my whole existence wasn't worth it, wasn't worth living in this world.

And I was only seven when I began thinking.

But I'm straying from the point again. Whatever mentality I might have had back then, it is also justified because I was still just a naive, innocent boy who was still so young from understanding the world. Whatever thought process I had, I don't believe it in now.

(Good. You are worth so much more, Shin-chan. Never forget it.)

In either case, I was never taught how to cook. I couldn't go back to the hospital nor did my parents have the time to teach me. I learned my lesson early enough to know that the kitchen was a domain for only the skilled. It would never be my place to interfere, so I didn't. I lived off anything I could make easily without any fire; mainly, cereal, food from the convenience store, and different kinds of foods and vegetable. Even now I can't imagine how I survived for so long with such lacking protein but I did, and finally, my parents trusted me enough to let me off on my own. I no longer had a babysitter to buy everything for me; she was very conservative with the money left by my parents. Back then, I believed it was because she wanted to surprise me one day with a restaurant trip with the money she had hoarded; now I realize just how I blind I was.

I didn't know what the flowers were for. I didn't know what it meant. But I still bought them from the flower shop across the convenience store. There was a man working the shop; it was the first time in a long while since I had seen another man other than my father. For a moment, I was petrified. What if the feeling I had subconsciously been pushing down rose back up again and all my hard work would be for nothing? What if my sole identity forced its way back up and I would have to live my life in complete solidarity with no one to love?

I was terrified, so terrified that I almost rushed out of the shop — rudely, mind you — to calm my wildly beating heart and push down my heaping anxiety. But before I could, the man noticed someone in the shop and turned himself around to greet me with a warm smile, like all flower shop owners have.

There was no feeling; well, there was but it wasn't the same feeling I had had when I had been with the doctor years ago. It was more a feeling of warmth than of attraction; maybe it was because I was deprived of such warmth, or maybe it was because I forgot what the feeling actually felt like. It was so long since I saw another man that back then, I must have forgotten what loving a person was like. But nevertheless, my anxiety immediately lessened, my heart began to beat again, and I asked for the flowers my mother so explicitly asked.

When I came back home with my favorite cereal brand and beautiful red, white, and black flowers, my parents were already home.

Curious but slightly overjoyed that this was the first time they actually came home early, I rushed to the middle of the room where they were at, a table big enough for exactly four, jumped onto one of the chairs, and neatly placed the flowers on the pot that right in the middle of the table. I was definitely giddy but it wasn't my place to show it; I was calm and collected. I imitated my mother's poise and stance but thinking back on it now, her face leaned towards a more morose face than an impassive one.

A ten year old would have never been able to differentiate.

I asked them what the occasion was, why they were so early. My parents gave me a look that I couldn't distinguish. My father's hands were placed onto the table, intertwined professionally, as if that was the position he was always at when he was at university. My mother began playing with the flowers that I had just bought. She then proceeded to pat my head gently, giving me a soft look I didn't know she had. The sight astonished me; I knew something was wrong.

I was afraid to ask what exactly seemed to be the problem; surely there was nothing I did to disappoint them again, right? I had done everything my parents expected me to do, from getting good grades in school to becoming the prodigious son they wanted me to be. What could have possibly gone wrong in this family to have my mother close to tears?

My father, with his hands slowly coming loose but still placed firmly on the table, called my name in a serious tone and I looked at him in the eye before lowering my head slightly. The look called for dominance, and had I been looked directly at him, I would have been challenging that. He, with an almost impassive, empty voice, told me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce.

He didn't delve into it further. He must have assumed I knew the definition of divorce. And unfortunately, I did. I knew the word well enough to say nothing from the shock. My mother said nothing as well; instead, she played with the one black rose I was able to obtain from the nice man who owned the flower shop.

In a trembling voice, I asked why. Why were you getting a divorce? I thought you two… I cut myself off before anything worse spewed out. I was about to say the word love, a word I firmly crushed from the bottom of my heart.

My father told me it was for the best. My mother kept playing with the black rose. I sat there quiet, unable to move, unable to comprehend, unable to process the fact that my family had been broken from the start and while I didn't know it then, it was excruciatingly clear now. The conversation ended with my father standing up and telling me I would stay with only him now. She already had a home ready for her, and the movers would come in two days to remove the domesticity we had been accumulating for the last ten years.

I didn't see my mother again until it was finally time for her to move out of our home. My father came home early from university for the first time to see my mother off. It was also the first time I didn't have to go to school. My perfect attendance was now ruined. He talked to my mother first, whispering so that I wouldn't be able to hear. He then came to me, crouched down, and patted my head. I missed that touch; it lingered for about two weeks after the separation because he never did pat my head like that again.

And my mother crouched down in front of me and gave me the same hug she had given me when I was hospitalized. She told me she would come visit me soon.

She never did say she was sorry for leaving. And afterwards, she left with the rest of the moving van. My father was already inside the house by the time she was no longer in sight. When I came back in, he was waiting for me at the table, gesturing at me to sit next to him.

It was like deja vu. I walked up slowly, purposely dragging my steps from the fear that something worse was going to happen once I arrived. And when I did, my father looked straight at me, his eyes burning my flesh, and told me that once I grew older, I would find a beautiful woman to be with.

(Shin-chan…)

He emphasized it. A beautiful woman, he said. A beautiful woman for you to stay with forever. A beautiful woman like my mother. With those parting words, he walked out of the house and it was at moment I realized the family would never be mended again.

Even worse, at ten, I ended up realizing two heart-wrenching pieces of information: one, my family had always been broken, even from the very start, and two, my father never really did trust me again.

He never truly loved me again.

"Are you leaving already? There's still a few minutes left."

"I'm done talking for the day. I'll try to come again tomorrow."

"Didn't see you yesterday. Did something happen?"

"I'm sorry, there was a bit of homework I had to finish yesterday and I ended up missing visiting hours. How much time do I have?"

"Fifteen. Take you time."

I realized that maybe I just didn't deserve love when I was twelve. It was before I entered middle school, before I met people I could truly be with ,even if it was for a short while. The divorce changed the family; I had to get used to entering the house without its strong female leader. My father always came later than usual; normally, he would at least arrive at 8 at night, but throughout the months, he began coming as late as eleven.

Most of times, I would already be asleep. Other times, I would wake up from a sudden crash inside the house. There, my father would be hung over at the foothold, smelling distinctly of alcohol, and so intoxicated that he wasn't able to move a muscle. His eyes were always closed, his face pure red from who knew how many shots he took, and his body so sluggish and disheveled, there were times where I thought a stranger had entered instead. My father had told me that the divorce was for the best, but all I could see was ruin.

The damage of the divorce was excruciatingly clear as I saw my once proud father starting to bring in strangers scantily dressed and also extremely intoxicated. Before, when he came alone, I would always move him to his room myself. It was honestly easier that way since my growth spurt was starting and I was growing taller by the moment. After he began to bring other women into the house, they would be the one taking my father to his room and leave without giving me a glance. I think they always wanted to do something else with my father, but they must have always had second thoughts after seeing a mere boy waiting for the heavily intoxicated man.

My mother, even though she never showed up anymore, would always send me allowances every month, enough to let me buy a whole week's worth of restaurant food. I was getting extremely conscious of my eating diet; I was depending too much on fast food. I was at the age of nine when I started learning about economics, the different ways I could manage money and tax payments my father always seemed to forget. I learned how to manage food intakes and ended up planning an entire nutritious diet that to this day, I still follow.

I grew taller, so tall for my age I was always mistaken as a middle school third year, though I was still in my last in primary school. I also grew stronger. At school, the rumors slowly started to dissipate and it was at that time when I finally met my first friend whose name now escapes me.

I remember him as a very cheerful person whose smile never left his features. He was always wearing the same white t-shirt and brown cargo pants during the weekend when we would meet outside in the playground. He also had a brother who was about five years older than him, and one day, the boy came with his brother, who, at the time, was holding a basketball.

I had no idea what that orange ball was, had no conception of how it worked nor how the game was supposed to be managed. It was a mysterious object that peaked my curiosity and the brother was extremely nice enough to teach us how to play. There was a worn-out basketball hoop at the edge of the playground and the brother, who was a tad bit taller than I, began to dribble and may his way to the hoop. He jumped and dunked the ball so hard it felt like the hoop would be destroyed by his sudden weight. The sound annoyed me; it reminded me of my father's footsteps and his slamming the door shut every night. It reminded me of his slurring words and the woman next to him immediately leaving after seeing me. It reminded me of everything that was going wrong in my life, so I asked him if there was another way to score points. And he told me there was. That was when I learned how to shoot three-pointers.

The brother took various steps back from the hoop, so far that the hoop's shadow slowly began to eat his figure away. He jumped and released the ball and in slow motion, so gracefully, the ball entered the hoop. Both the boy and I were mesmerized by the action, the hoop swishing with the wind as the ball dropped and bounced back up in a fluid, almost melodious motion. The brother returned to his original spot and explained that in a normal basketball game, that would be three points earned. It was fitting, to say the least; the most beautiful action was bound to be given the most points.

We begged the brother to teach us more about basketball, to explain and entertain our young, youthful minds. We begged him to meet us every weekend so that he could be our coach and friend. And as he said yes, my heart started beating terribly fast. I clutched my shirt, my chest, my heart that I had so painstakingly buried in my body and was rising again like its life depended on it, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. The heart beating was such an old sensation I completely forgot about that I didn't know how to react; my breathe fell short and I fell to my knees in shock. Both the brother and the boy ran towards me, asking me if I was ok and if I needed a doctor, but I just shook my head, telling them that it must have been the weather. The brother helped me up, touching my back soothingly, exactly like the doctor had done when I was still visiting the hospital, and I resisted the urge to lean into it. Instead, I feigned ignorance and met him again the forthcoming week.

The routine became simple and nice. The boy, his brother, and I would always meet at noon in the playground, right beside the hoop, and we would play until the day would reach 6 in the evening. There, we would depart and do the same the next day. I waited so dearly for the weekend to come fast, and I became so distracted that I barely worried about both my father and my grades. I bought a basketball with the money my mother had sent me a few days back and hid it meticulously from my father so that he wouldn't know that I was becoming a sinful child again.

I began to hone my skills with three pointers during the weekdays when no one was around. I would always finish my homework at school during break time and perfect them with few to no mistakes in just a few minutes at home so that I would have the entire evening to myself and my basketball. I would always end up back in the house before nine and sleep through my father's drunk ordeal.

It was so calm and easy. I never felt so belonged in a community before. I still had no friends at school but I had no time for them anyways. My life was already starting, and it started with the boy's brother whose looks, stance, and techniques all grabbed and pulled me towards him. I wanted to impress him so badly; I wanted him to acknowledge just how much of an impact he had given me.

I wanted him to know how I felt about him.

So, I learned, and I learned fast. I was such a fast learner that the brother stopped coming and the boy was unable to come out of the house more. When he did one day, I finally got the courage to ask him why his brother had stopped coming. He gave me a sad, pitiful look and bluntly told me it was my fault; that I had crushed his pride for being such an amazing basketball player. I had learned all the techniques and skills in just a few weeks while he himself had been honing them since he was an elementary school student. I had passed his level a long time ago, and he couldn't bear see his pride succumb to a mere kid.

It wasn't necessarily the fact that his pride had forbidden him from seeing me that hurt the most; it was fact that he viewed me as a kid instead of someone equal to him. My heart was once again crushed as I threw another three pointer easily through the net. I felt something drag me to the ground, force me to crawl on my knees home. There was something terribly heavy in my heart and it took me about a week to actually stand properly; until then, I was always hunched.

They boy must have noticed my dampening mood and asked me if he really wanted to see my brother. I, out of whim, told him I did. The next week, the boy was holding onto his brother's wrist tightly, and he smiled big when he saw me walking towards them. The brother refused to look at me, refused to even see my figure, so he turn his head with his chin held high. The sight hurt me so badly that I proposed a bet. If I won, he would have to come here every weekend and keep playing with us; if I lost, he had to right to never come here again to see me. And the brother agreed.

I wanted to win so badly. I wanted to see him every weekend, every day even. I wanted to win so badly that I ended up perfecting my shots by the first half of the game. He was getting frustrated to see his score falling behind mine that he started to play unfairly by grabbing my shirt and preventing me from shooting by blocking right in front of my face. I, just a bit smaller than he was, and I didn't have the right materials nor the right mindset to block properly; I had never learned how to nor was I focused enough because he was right there, in front of me, where I could see his perspiration falling down his neck and hear his breathing right next to my ear.

But I wanted to win. Still, I wanted to win.

So, I began to toss the ball impossibly high. I threw the ball in such a high arch to never let the brother touch it and block another three pointer I was gunning for. I shot the ball so high in the air that both my feelings and his pride flew to the air, but for different reasons. By the end of the game, I won by a landslide, 56 to 34, and the brother, unable to control his anger, grabbed me by the shirt and began to shake me so harshly I felt like vomiting.

He told me he would never come back to the likes of me and began to walk away. My heart hurt terribly, it hurt so much. It felt like a thousand daggers were slowly piercing each and every inch of my beating organ. It felt like the water that was filling a plastic container that was my heart was now overflowing. I called him out and told him I liked him. And the playground became silent as the brother stopped walking and the boy that was beside me took a step aside. The silence that filled the area stayed there as the brother quickly ran back for his younger sibling and briskly walked away.

It was a few weeks later when I saw the boy again. By then, I was miserable. I stopped coming to the playground on the weekday to practice my basketball skills and my heart was so shriveled that I began to feel nothing, not even an ounce of hatred for my father when he had lipstick stains all over his blazer. My days in elementary school were coming to an end and I was back to being a fag. Rumors spread again and though there wasn't as much bullying as before — I like to believe that it was because my height was too intimidating — but the words still stung and there were more times than not when I wanted to cry. But then again, by that point, my heart was buried again, in such a dark place even I couldn't search for it anymore.

When the boy called me to meet in the playground out of the blue one day, I first thought against it. He couldn't possibly want to do anything with me after what I had done. It was impossible; he surely couldn't have wanted to be with a fag, did he? But he was adamant and even told me he would wait until late midnight if he had to. He wanted me to come, and like the idiot I was who was still craving for the human interaction I didn't deserve, I still went. When I arrived, he was alone, shivering because he had no coat in this chilly night, and smiling when he saw me approach him.

I stopped a few steps from him so that we wouldn't be that close to each other. He was still shivering and I wanted to do nothing more but to shed my own coat and give it to him because it looked like he had stayed like that for some time now, but I was still scared and I couldn't approach him any more than where I already was. The boy was disappointed, that much I could see, but he said nothing about that.

Instead he asked me why I wasn't coming to the playground anymore. I replied that we never talked to each other after what happened. He told me that was because he thought he should give me a little space to think about it. I asked what I had to think about in the first place. And then, he hesitated. I truly did it this time, I thought. Now, he won't ever want to play with me again.

But he smiled again, walked a step closer to me and hit both me and himself on the head. Surprised, my eyes widened and asked him why he had just hit me. He told me it was because we were both idiots. You're right, he said, there was nothing to think about anyways.

You like my brother, he told me. So what? I like him, too. He's really cool, isn't he? And as I heard those words, even though I knew he took it the wrong way, I couldn't bring myself to correct him and just nodded that yes, he was right. His brother was really cool, cool enough to make anyone like him.

In hindsight, maybe the boy didn't take it the wrong way; maybe the boy knew deep down that I was just different, but at that age, before I graduated from elementary school and embarked my way into middle school, I didn't care. He still wanted to play with me; I wasn't alone.

(What an amazing person, Shin-chan. He truly saved you. Where is he now?)

("I don't know where he is anymore. The last time I saw him, his mother was dragging him away from me so that he wouldn't get infected.")

Thinking back on it now, maybe the boy was meeting me in secret. There were times when he called me to say we couldn't meet because of reasons I was never told of. There were other times when he was very anxious at the court and I couldn't really make him focus in anything. I did ask him various times why he was so worried but he never did reply back. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm sure the boy's family all knew what I was. Maybe the mother had heard rumors about me and wanted her son to get away; maybe the brother told the mother after finding out that the boy was still playing with me. In either case, I never saw the boy again. They moved away from the town without a single goodbye.

But that was the story of how I got into basketball. The loss was bittersweet; to lessen the pain in my heart, I became more focused on honing my skills in three pointers. My height grew more as I now began to look at other elementary school students with a menacing glance and I grew so tall there were some parents calling that there was a middle school child harassing the school.

My father was the same as always; the divorce had ruined any ounce of pride he had left in himself. He was so calm and collected when he had first announced but now I know that it was all an act. He still missed my mother; he missed her so much that he was actively seeking out women who looked vaguely like her. It was a terrible habit, really. He would always go drinking after his university shift ended, and he would always end up bringing a stranger smelling distinctly of beer and cigarettes to the house. He would always propose that they begin a relationship, but he would always get a one-night stand instead.

That is, until a few months before my debut as a middle school student. When I came back from my daily basketball practice, my father was at the table, sober and smiling, talking to a woman I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in the conversation it gave me time to hide the basketball. When I did, I walked to them and they finally noticed the boy with glasses standing right in front of them.

The first thing my father asked me was where I had gotten those glasses.

I believe that was the first time I ever wanted to hit my father in the face. It shouldn't have been such a big deal, I know, but I had gotten my glasses a few months ago because I was noticing how much my eyesight was getting blurry. It must have been from watching television so late at night and the constant studying under a single, yellow light, but my eyes were getting worse and I needed to get a prescription by myself.

I had gotten them ages ago and my father didn't notice at least once. There was a guest but I couldn't press my anger down. Gritting my teeth, I told him I got them a few months ago, when he was out and left an elementary school child all to himself. My father's eyes radiated with anger at such blatant rudeness in front of a guest but the woman merely giggled and ruffled my hair.

He's a cute one, isn't he, she asked and gave me a fake smile, nothing like the one the boy always had. His smile was warm and sweet, like he really wanted you to be there; this woman, however, had a smile that screamed danger. Her smile was more jagged, sharp, with no warmness whatsoever.

But she looked like my mother. And my father must have thought the same thought or else he would have never chosen her. The anger my father was harboring against me faded and he, too, smiled the same smile the woman had. He told me they were in a relationship now.

A few weeks later, they got married. My father wanted me to be best boy but I told him it was better if he found someone else to take my place. I didn't go to the wedding; instead, I wrote a letter to my mother for the first time.

I told her about the woman who looked so much like her but didn't at all resemble her, I told her about my father who was always getting drunk until he found this woman, and I told her about the boy whose name is in oblivion. My hand was shaking as the writing was in autopilot; I told her about my basketball hobby, I told her about the boy who lent out a hand when I needed it the most, and I told her about the brother who had given me the same feeling as the doctor had done. I told her that I knew I was different, I told her that I knew I shouldn't be like this, I asked her how to change myself to become a better person, and I cried as I wrote that I missed her.

I told her that I missed her and I wanted her back. To this day, I still haven't gotten a letter back.

(I'm so sorry, Shin-chan. I don't know what to say.)

("What else is there to say?")

It was obvious by that point that she didn't want to do anything with me anymore. Money was still sent to me but there was no more note attached to it, telling me I was doing a great job. I was sure someone else was sending it to me now because it didn't feel like my mother's doing anymore. She must have been too busy to even deal with her now lost son.

A few months after getting settled into middle school and finally feeling happy again since who knows how long, my baby sister was born. I was twelve when my baby sister was born.

I was twelve when my step-mother told me she didn't want me in the house anymore.

She knew; my father had told her. She knew that I was a weird kid who shouldn't spend his breath on this world for long. She knew that I was devil's pawn for the interests that I had. She knew I was different from everybody else.

She didn't want me in the house anymore; she didn't want me near my baby sister anymore. And she was just born. My father didn't say anything on the matter; instead, he took me to my room, sat me down on the bed, took my hand, and told me that everything would be ok.

I asked why my stepmother didn't like me; he told me that it was his mistake. She was like him; she wanted everything to be perfect. She used to like me, my father explained, when she found out that I was always top of my class, always studying, always impressing my teachers, always at the top of my game for everything. She liked that I was the full package in what she looked for in a son: good grades, good manners, good looks; everything that she always wanted in a child, I had. She used to like me because I was perfect. And my father had to ruin it by telling her about the phase I had had when I was little; the phase in which I liked other men.

It spiraled down from there. My stepmother didn't want me in the house anymore. She wouldn't even let me play with my baby sister, much less go near her room. My father tried to explain that it was over now; the phase was no longer there and I was back to normal. She refused to hear it. She absolutely hated that her image of a perfect son, a perfect family, was now and forever ruined.

She actually did kick me out of the house once and I didn't return a week later.

(Shin-chan…)

She caught me dangling shiny keys above my baby sister. She loved playing with me; she loved grabbing my longer, more slender fingers with her chubby, baby hands. She loved playing with my hair, my glasses, the basketball I still had. She loved me, and I loved her back.

But my stepmother found out and kicked me out, telling me that I should never come back if I knew what was best for the family. She would never forgive me if I infected her with something I could never control. I ended up staying in my middle school during the nights, having nowhere else to stay. I couldn't tell anybody, it was my own pride that made me refuse to say anything about it; I was just glad I got into the basketball team early on because we always had such long, extensive practices. It would always end at 8 or 9 at night and every time practice ended, I was always the one who locked up the gym and by then, everyone would be gone. Then, I would take the key back to the faculty room and stay there until early in the morning. I would wash in the showers — thank goodness the school provided such places for sports people — and I would have a slight breakfast at the convenience store right beside the school. By the time I was finished, people would already be entering and I would casually follow them, making it seem as if I was just coming out of my house.

It went on like this until a teacher who had apparently forgotten something and came to the school late at night saw me sleeping below one of the desks in the faculty room. She woke me up and asked what I was doing here so late at night, why I was sleeping in school when I had a perfectly good home waiting for me.

I told her that there was no such thing as a perfect home and she ended up calling my father, who had been searching for me relentlessly for the past week. He could never visit my middle school because he himself had to go to university to teach but at night, the moment he came home, he would look for me only to come back with a grief-stricken look on his face.

When he came to pick me up and we got to the house, my stepmother was there, waiting at the door with terror marring her facial features. She was holding my baby sister, who saw me and was desperately trying to reach me by struggling against her. My father closed the door and began to scream at me, asking what in the world I was doing, running away from home. I glanced at my stepmother, who seemed to be trembling slightly. My baby sister was still struggling to be with me. I looked back at my father and apologized formally, telling him I would never do it again.

But he still wanted answers. I told him I needed to clear my head but he wouldn't take that for an answer. He kept pestering me until my stepmother finally interrupted and told him to give it a rest; I was finally found, back safe and sound, and that there would be no more of this kind of shenanigan. My father, who still felt irritated and agitated, reluctantly agreed and told me that if I ever pulled this kind of stunt again, he would show me what he was really capable of. I nodded out of fear and he, somewhat satisfied, left the scene.

Even now I don't know why I protected my stepmother by not telling my father the true reason of my leaving the house. I like to believe it was because it was a way to show her that I was more mature than she would ever be, or maybe because her trembling was too pitiful for me to bear. Even so, my relationship with my father got rockier and my stepmother always remembered to lock the door to my sister's room whenever I was around.

Nothing had changed and the warmth I was given for a small period of time was gone as I was deprived of the one human I wanted to be with; my baby sister. She was the only one who truly wanted me to be there, and yet, I could never pass the barrier between me and her.

I was twelve when my heart shrunk to an unbelievable size; I grew tired of always being rejected. I wanted nothing more but to leave the world, just as everyone had been telling me to do so.

So, when I was twelve, I decided to jump off a building to see if I could fly, but it never worked out.

"I'm sorry to interrupt but we have other guests who want to enter."

"It's ok. I needed to leave anyways. I just got a call saying that they want me to help finish the final touches to the ceremony."

"Will it be soon?"

"It will unless by some miracle, his eyes open again. I want them to open again."

"How much time?"

"I can give you five. Even though you seem to be the only person visiting nowadays and we would love to give you more, we don't know when what condition he might be in. Already so much time has passed by."

"Thank you for your generosity."

I realized how wrong I was about love when I was sixteen. This is a part of the story you've never known about myself and today, I'll gladly give it to you.

My third year in middle school only seemed to reinforce my view on love; it was always going to be broken, no matter how hard a person tried to keep it together. The friendship I had with my teammates, all coming from the same love for basketball, was now lost in the air. There was nothing we could do but to separate. We became too good to be able to support each other, and how could we possibly strive to achieve a love if there wasn't any support to hold us together in the first place? My most trusted friends and I were acting as if we never knew each other, and I couldn't take that.

My heart was so small it made me more of a stoic rock than an actual human being. Nothing could get me to feel anymore, not even the sensation of winning because we had won so many times without even breaking a sweat. The sensation of hugging my teammates for a job well done was floating in the air, barely within our grip but unable to take it with us. I forgot the feeling of happiness.

My stepmother was now less wary of me but that may have also been because I was now going into high school and my sister was old enough to start walking on her own. My father was busy as always, to the point where sometimes I forgot I had a father figure in the first place, and my stepmother was also starting to come into the house less. For some time, I believed it was because her workplace was finally getting some recognition and because she was manager of the place, she would have more responsibilities to take on. But then I saw her one day talking to a man that was definitely not my father and I knew from the look in her eyes that she had always been doing this kind of sultry thing.

I confronted her about it; my emotions had gone so terribly dull that even when she threatened me that she would never let me see my sister again, I kept the poker face I had learned from my mother and told her that none of that would matter if I told my father about it. He could be violent when he wanted to be, especially when he let his anger get the best of him, and both of us knew that so well. I still respect him as a man but no one can say that he was black or white. When I told her this, she succumbed and told me I was a monster.

But I wasn't affected. Who could be after being told the same thing countless of times in the past up until this point? All the connotations were different, I realize that, but they always said the same thing: I was a monster. Whether it be from the fact that I was different or the fact that I was mercilessly ruining people's love for a hobby like basketball, it didn't really matter. What mattered was the fact that I was defined as a monster and I was starting to believe it. And I hated myself for it. I hated my own being, my own feelings, my own self that I was spiraling down an endless pit of self-hate, anger, and agony.

That is, until I met the one person who single-handedly pulled me out of the gravel when nobody in my sixteen years of life could do.

The first time I saw him, the first time I saw you, I had to admit that there wasn't any reaction. There was no spark, no jolt of ecstatic happiness, nothing to give me the hint that he was the one to truly be an impact in my life. Life isn't like a romance novel or drama or manga or whatever other media there is; there is never a sparkling background for the main romantic character and there is barely a happy ending. There is no obvious sign that this person was going to be the one.

But then I kept seeing him, in my class, in the hallway, in the gym where we had basketball practices and I couldn't help but feel both happy and insecure. What if he left me again? What if he found out? What if the universe was truly trying to get it through my head that I really was just a mistake? I didn't want to know; it's the reason why I started to hide my emotions away in the first place.

But there he was, there you were, always smiling, always happy, always talking endlessly about nothing and everything all at once. And the attention was always to me, the one person who kept trying to push you away.

You were always such a social person, I don't think you could stand to see such a lonely person stay like that for the rest of the school year. Even now, I sometimes believe that you just approached me because you found me pitiful and you hated seeing someone unable to be with others.

(That's the not true, Shin-chan. That's not true.)

Sometimes, I believe that the reason you approached me was because I was just another challenge for you to overcome, to truly see if you could be friends with anyone. That just makes me laugh. Voicing that aloud makes me realize just how much of a pessimist I am. You would never do that. You were the one who saved me, after all.

It was a strange feeling, I can tell you that much, being pulled out of something you've been living in for practically your entire life. I was in there for so long that I truly believed that this was my destiny, my tragic faith. Everyone had abandoned me: my father, my mother, my mother's replacement, the boy and his brother, even my friends and teammates. Everyone I placed so dearly in my heart would never stay; every time, they would leave me.

And I believed that that was what my life was supposed to be. Having to constantly endure the pain of nobody wanting you to be with them, the agony of always being alone because you were just too different the rest, the hurt of wanting to be with someone so badly but knowing that if you told them who and what you liked, they would immediately shun you.

I never understood why everybody hated me. Why did everyone have to voice their opinion on a life they never even had nor experienced? What was so special about my life that they just had to ruin? Was it for fun? Was it for jokes? Was it for sadistic pleasure?

And yet you, the one who pulled me of my self-loathing endless pit, reached your hand out to me and forced me to grab it. It wasn't really forcing, it was more of my own doing, my own action. Even through the continual pain of abandonment, I still wanted someone to hold me when I was down and to be with me whenever I needed the comfort. I grabbed your hand out of fear and desperation, out of the anxiety of oblivion. And you probably knew. You probably knew I was only using you for my own selfish needs. You probably knew and yet you still held out your hand for me to grab it.

I never could understand. Why did you help me back then? Why did you decide to be so friendly to me? I was just a stupid child, a child with no sense of identity. I didn't know right from wrong, happy from sad, loved from unloved. And yet, you still held out your hand. Though now, it feels like my grip on your hand is slowly slipping and I'm just going to fall down again.

But I won't get into that. I have no time. Instead, let me try and tell you, explain to you the best I can, how much you mean to me.

You were the one who started it. You were the one who approached me with that carefree smile on your face and your hand held out for me to grab along the way. The day we had one of our most important matches, the day I was finally able to trust the people surrounding me, the day you and I were finally clicking our cogs together in perfect harmony, we lost the match and it was first time in a while since I cried. I cried from the painful loss of the match, I cried from my heart trying to burst out of my chest from this overwhelming feeling of despair, and I cried from the fact that even though I opened my heart out, when I dug it back up from the oblivion I had left it at, we still lost. And you were the one who told me it was ok.

You were also crying, you were also feeling the same shitty feeling, and you still decided to put me as your top priority before yours. And you hugged me, told me it was ok, and that you would always be there for me. We would always be a team, partners even. You told me that nothing in this world would separate us because we were one as not only basketball teammates but also friends.

You told me you loved me, and I just couldn't stop crying.

(What were you feeling then, Shin-chan? What were you thinking about?)

What was I feeling back then when you told me that? I'm sure you must have wanted to know, which is why I'm telling you right now. I remember the day being rainy, which seemed to fit the mood well. I couldn't tell if the the wetness on our faces was from the rain or from our own tears. You told me you loved me but I never responded back. It was to be expected, really. How could I portray such strong emotions in the heap of a moment when all my life I had been trying to drown it down? It was near impossible, and I regret every day for not telling you when I had the chance.

What did I want to tell you back then? What do I want to tell you right now? I want to tell you that I love you as well.

(Shin-chan…)

There were so many things I wanted to tell you back then. I wanted to tell you that I loved you, that you were the one who made everything better. My life was a complete lie because I made it like that. I, like the hopeless child I was, tried so hard to become someone I wasn't all for the sake of face. I tried to be someone else because my father didn't like it, my mother didn't like it, my stepmother truly hated it, and everyone else around me seemed to say the same thing. I tried to become someone else because that was what I was told. And I thought, if I truly had the motivation for it, it would become true; I would become a different person.

I must have truly never had the motivation to change; you can't change something you already are.

I also felt so happy when you expressed your feelings to me. I was happy for exactly three reasons. I was happy because it was when I met you that I realized how common people like me were. I realized that I wasn't the odd one in the universe, society just made it out to be like that because they do whatever they can to bring us down. People like me were common and I wasn't alone. I wasn't alone.

I also felt happy because, unlike me, you were able to tell me the feelings you had. Instead of being trapped in a box like I was, you took a step forward by bursting your individual bubble to tell me. You showed me how strong you were, how determined you were, how loved you were. You were able to give me the emotion I was most lacking and pull me into your arms to tell me I could do the same. I could feel the same.

And I was most happy because for once, there was someone who loved me for who I was. My father never truly loved me; that much I was able to figure out at the age of ten. My mother, who never once had written to me, didn't love me because if she had, she would have taken me with her. It was obviously simple that my stepmother refused to do anything that involved me; after all, I was the one who broke her image of a perfect son and I was the one who threatened her to let me see my little sister all the time. The boy and his brother were gone a long time ago; my teammates in middle school only saw one another as enemies now, and there were countless others who always believed that they could have say in my life and what I wanted to do with it. Everybody hated me, left me, abandoned me, and you never did.

Instead, you embraced me and told me you loved me. And I love you back.

So, please, for the love of god, wake up. Wake up and embrace me like you did back then. Embrace me and tell me that everything will be ok, that we will always be together because we are not just teammates, we're friends.

Embrace me and tell me you love me again.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I don't think I can keep this up for much longer. I'm sorry."

"May I enter?"

"His condition has grown worse. We may not know if he'll need medical help at any circumstance."

"I only need five minutes."

"Can you make it three?"

"Is that the only time I have left?"

"It's the only time we can allow right now. Please cooperate with us today."

"I'm sorry for being so persistent. Three minutes is perfect."

My mother finally replied back. And today, due to the small amount of time I have, I'll read what she has written to me.

She writes, I'm sorry I haven't had the time to write you back. It's been four years since you've written to me, and I can understand the feelings you must be having currently once you get this letter, and I'm sorry I took so long in writing you back.

I am a terrible mother, we can all establish that. I am terrible mother who left you to your own needs, who left you when you needed support the most, who left you when no one else could understand your feelings. And I'm sorry for leaving you so soon.

My reasons were simple in leaving your father; what seemed like destiny at first molded into a first level accident in which we were both deprived of human contact and we would do anything to get it back. But when I got you, my first miracle, my feelings for your father was already dwindling. I realized just how wrong I was in marrying someone I never truly loved. I never loved your father; I never loved anyone in the first place.

There are so many unknown, uncontrollable things happening in the universe that we can never know about because life is so short and the knowledge out there is endless. We can never truly understand who we are as people and why we have such emotional behaviors to even the most simplest tasks like having a fictional crush on someone you saw on the television or admiring a powerful figure like a doctor. But the truth is, we understand that we don't have enough time to gain that knowledge and we accept that and move on. We understand that we have to acquire enough knowledge to understand who are as people and be satisfied with that or you'll be wandering around aimlessly, trying to call for a name that isn't there anymore. We have to be satisfied with knowing ourselves inside and out, and even then, so many people can't achieve that.

I myself took fifty years to understand who I really was, and I was able to achieve that solely because I had you, my pride and joy. You must be having mixed feelings about this, and I understand that. It's not everyday you get a letter from a person who's completely left your life without another word.

I am a terrible mother, and I understand that. I'll be completely honest with you: I read your letter the moment I got it, but I could never respond back. You were asking me such hard, difficult questions that even your own mother, the best lawyer in the country, couldn't find the answer to. Had these questions been asked to me in court, I surely would have lost. Your questions baffled me so badly I had to cancel some of my meetings and sometimes, even cases because no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't figure it out.

Why were you born this way? Why was I born this way? Why didn't I feel any sexual attraction towards anyone? Was it because I was raised to always reject my surroundings in order to focus on my studies? Was it because my parents strictly told me that any attraction felt was a sin and I should never let it get to me?

It took me a while to finally reach my answer. And the answer is, we are all just born this way. I can be born an asexual and you can be born a homosexual; there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. You can love whoever you want as long as you feel that connection towards that person. As long as you truly know that you love that person with all your heart, you can love whomever you want. No one, not your father or your stepmother or the brother you've mentioned or anyone in this world can tell you what you can and can't be. You have your own path to follow.

You father, however, is who I'm worried about the most. To marry a stranger just because he looked like me is very unnerving; it's as if I've grabbed ahold of him, which is something I refuse to let happen. He should never fall in the category of loving and loving again until someone loves you back; he shouldn't be a slave to it. I'm worried about him; I thought better of him. Here's a bit of additional information now that I'm mentioning this but I'm going to meet your father in a few weeks at Maji Burger a block away from your home. I'm assuming that you didn't move so if you'd like to see me, that would be the time.

I'll say this again and even a hundred times if I have to: you are not to blame for the orientation you have. No matter what the people tell you, it's ok to love a man. It's also ok to love a woman or maybe even nobody at all. It's ok to be whomever you want to be as long as you know that that is something you can truly define yourself with it. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

I'm sorry for being a terrible mother; I'm sorry for not helping you when you needed me the most; I'm sorry for leaving you to figure out something that even a grown woman couldn't even figure out until just recently; I'm sorry for making you go through all by yourself.

And I miss you, too.

Did you hear? She misses me, too.

She's telling me it's ok to be myself again.

She's telling me it's ok to love you.

"I'll come again tomorrow."

"Is tomorrow the day?"

"It is. His family has given me permission to pull the plug. Please don't let anyone come in when I arrive. Please."

"Of course. I'm so sorry."

"How much time do I have?"

"You can have all the time in the world."

I love you.

Never forget that.

Never forget that you were my savior from this harsh reality.

Never forget that you were the one who single-handedly pulled me out of an endless pit I was falling into.

Never forget how you embraced me in the rain and told me everything will be ok.

Because I know I never will.

I'll never forget how warm you were even in such a chilly night.

Never forget how much you mean to me.

Because I know that you will never leave my mind.

My mother told me it was ok to love whoever I wanted to as long as I felt that connection with them.

And I felt that connection with you.

She told me it was ok now.

She told me it was ok to be who I really was in the first place.

No one to tell me if I'm right or wrong, happy or sad, loved or unloved.

No one can tell me to be something I'm not.

And I truly believe that now.

I truly believe that it is ok now.

It's ok to love who you want to love.

And I love you.

So never forget that I love you.

And never forget that you have blessed me with a love that I was never able to have.

I love you.

"Goodbye Takao."

(Bless, Shin-chan.)

So, how was it? Good, bad, meh? Tell me in the reviews!

This was so hard to write. I wanted so badly to try and portray my heart felt emotions into this and I don't know if it worked for sure. All I can say is that I love this story because it really gives an insight of what might actually be happening in real life.

There is a possibility that I might change this fanfiction into an actual original story because I really love it. Hope it works well.

This is also one of the longest one-shots I've ever written, passing My Savior, My Angel by a long shot. I didn't know it would turn out this way, but I'm glad that it did.

In terms of the story of Takao and Midorima, it's pretty much your own interpretation on what was going on between the brackets. If you want to believe that it was actually Midorima and Takao conversing, then that's your interpretation. If you think it was all in Midorima's head, that's your way of thinking. I like to believe that it was Takao outside of his body comforting Midorima and add-libbing without Midorima knowing, but that's my own interpretation (and I'm the one who wrote it haha)

I truly hope you all loved this story and tell me if you'd like to see a Takao perspective as well. I highly doubt it will happen because I'm satisfied with just this but maybe in the near future, I might surprise you :)

Please await my other updates (I believe the next one will be A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words) and don't forget to check out my new story, Limelight, which follows Midorima and Takao in a zombie apocalypse.

I hope you all have a wonderful day and please, for the impact of the story, try and find what the word for goodbye actually is in Icelandic. I was inspired by Zankyou no Terror (haha)

Peace,

FlyAndDontLookBack