I will not bore you with the tale of my death.

It wasn't something heroic—the type that so many people crave—nor was it something melancholy—that is so often told in stories. No, my death was neither; for, if it held such importance, then I should have not forgotten it.

I won't lie and tell you that I'm not bothered by that fact because I am. I had forgotten my own death. How many people can say that they've done that? None that I'm aware of. People don't just forget their deaths, not when it's something that we, as humans, spend so much time thinking about. It's not a thought that tends to drift far from the mind because it is the one thing in life we cannot predict.

Not only was I upset that I forgot my death, but, in the midst of everything that happened, I had managed to remember everything else. I remembered the way my mom's brown eyes crinkled when she smiled at me, how my brother refused to cut his shaggy, black hair and still managed to look stylish. I could hear my sister's giggles that seemed to chime as she pulled me to see the picture she had just colored and feel my father's calloused fingertips brush away the hot tears that cascaded down my cheeks after I had fallen off my bike or failed a test.

I could remember it all.

I could remember who I was, who I used to be, and, in the warm, dark space that I currently called my home, I wondered who I was going to be.

Who had I been? Mary Johansen: a college sophomore who was trying her best to be a PreMed major and become a doctor. A girl who had been called plain by her brother for having brown hair and eyes, but had been called princess by her sister. The middle child (who tried so hard to resist the 'middle-child-syndrome') of Katherine and Robert Johansen, younger sister to Michael and older sister to Sarah. A young woman who had gotten into a college without having top marks and who had her future semi-planned out. A woman who had been content with what she had.

But I couldn't help wonder who I'd be… who I wanted to be?

I kicked harshly against the warm wall that imprisoned me, trying to vent out my frustration in the best way possible—or what I thought was possible. Opening my mouth to yell, I blinked in surprise as no noise escaped my lips, and I bitterly kicked again. Not only could I not seem to move far, I couldn't speak and, in the time I had been in the darkness, couldn't eat.

It had come as a surprise and I couldn't flinch back as the warm wall suddenly pressed against me. Kicking the wall had never been a problem, but the wall managing to touch me? That was a problem. It wasn't the most pleasant feeling and it, grossly enough, reminded me of a dog's tongue. The wall had never dared refute against my kicks and punches before, and the fact that it had, had my ideas of where I was edging towards confirmation.

Carefully, I kicked the wall again; softer, but strong enough to show that I was there. To my utmost horror, and surprise, the wall pushed back again and my ideas were confirmed.

Rebirth had always been a thought that floated around my head. Whether it was the romantic soulmate AU or just how certain people looked as though they fit different time frames, rebirth and reincarnation had never drifted far from my thoughts. The idea of rebirth was also something my (past) family had strongly believed in. They believed that when you died, your soul was placed in another body, or being, and your memories were wiped at birth since it was something too traumatic for a baby to remember or want to remember. Rolling over in my home—or the womb, perhaps—I wiggled my nose in thought as I tried to wonder why I was still conscious of my surroundings. I had read stories of children remembering their pasts but they soon forgot about those thoughts as they grew older and I hoped that it would be the same for me.

Maybe this was just a blip in the whole plan of things?

I hoped it was.

Time continued to pass and I remained in utter darkness. It was boring and slow, seeing there really wasn't much to do in the nothingness that I called home; but, I came to love the wall that protected me from the world… and I had come to love the person who pushed back on the wall. They made me feel like I wasn't alone—which I knew I wasn't; I was in a person—and seemed to always snap me out of my depressed daze that came when I remained unmoving and 'silent' for too long. Sometimes when I remembered the life that I used to have and the time that I spent surrounded by my loved ones, I would kick exceptionally hard in hopes that the wall would push in.

It always did.

Birth wasn't something that I was particularly excited for, but I was excited to see the world again and to figure out where I was. In case you're wondering how I knew I was going to be born soon, it's quite simple. I could feel the uterus contracting around me as I felt my head squish into this smaller area. It felt much like wearing a hat that was way too small for you and only seemed to get smaller every passing moment. Although it was uncomfortable, I knew that my 'mother' was going through worse pain than myself.

The birth was, in my opinion, quite quick—but that could be attributed to the fact that I had no concept of time.

As the pressure grew greater on my head, I realized that it was spreading down to my arms and I struggled to free myself. Frantically, I kicked my feet as an unknown force pushed me out the womb. The pressure grew stronger and stronger, and I whimpered in pain as my head felt as though two hands were pushing together, trying to crush my skull, before it suddenly vanished. One more unknown push later, and I felt my body slip out the dark nothingness I once called my home.

I didn't cry at first and kept my eyes closed, my face scrunched together as I felt a cold hand hold me gently. It was only when a sharp smack echoed throughout the room and I felt a burning pain radiate throughout my body, I let out a loud wail. Light flooded my vision and I winced at the brightness, wrinkling up my face again before I blinked rapidly. The hand that held me rushed to rub a rough fabric over my body and I only wept louder at the discomfort. I twisted in the stranger's arms as they continued to rub the sandpaper all over my body, recoiling as the blanket was tied tightly around my body and I was gently placed into someone's arms.

People were right when they said that a baby's vision was horrible.

The woman who cooed above me was nothing more than a blob of honey yellow. Although I could kind of tell where her face was by the pale color, her hair seemed to be larger than her face and neck combined. I blinked up at her, my cries turning into silent whimpers and watched as a giant blob—which I later found out to be her hand—softly caressed my face. A lower voice spoke from beside her and I tried to turn to the sound, only for my new mother to lift me up.

My jaw dropped and my eyes widened as I stared at the purple blob in front of me, his hand coming up to gently ruffle my thin locks. He muttered something to my mother and I couldn't help but cry out as I was placed into his hands, momentarily losing the warmth that I craved. The man above me, my father, let out a breathy laugh as he stared down at me, almost sounding shocked that he was even holding me in the first place. Subconsciously, I snuggled into his chest… into the warmth and felt my eyes droop, the sudden heaviness taking me by surprise and I struggled to fight against it.

My father seemed to notice my struggle and held me a little tighter, his warmth almost like a furnace and, without a second thought, I let the darkness consume me.

"Touka," My mother's soft voice called, and I turned to look at her, her light purple eyes staring into a mirror. I remembered how shocked I had been when I discovered the unusual color of my eyes and how my mother laughed at my expression. But, that had only been the start of my shock, a loud squeal escaping my lips as I finally caught sight of my hair, "Come here."

It had been two years since I had been reborn.

Two years since my old life had been ripped away from me.

I had grown to love this new life, this second chance. My mother, Hikari, treated me as though I were her world, as did my father, Arata. My new parents were like night and day, and I felt as I were the stars that rested between them. My mother was quiet and soft; her voice was something that I often fell asleep to. With hair the color of honey and eyes that reminded me of lilacs, there was no doubt in my mind that she was the sun. My father, on the other hand, was loud and understanding. He was often out of the house and my mother told me it was because he was busy working. His hair was the perfect mix of navy and purple—indigo, and his eyes were a deep violet. He was the moon.

As the stars, I represented the perfect combination of both my parents. My hair was a similar color to my father's but only a little lighter, and my eyes were identical to the lilac of my mother's. Arata often remarked that I looked more like Hikari as I grew older and the smile that lit up his face when he said that was one I could never forget—one that I would never allow myself to forget.

Waddling over to my mother on my unsteady legs, I plopped in her lap and peered up at her. Hikari hummed as she brushed my hair out of my face, her eyes sparkling with an unspoken joy. I didn't bother to ask her why she wanted me to come over, knowing she would tell me when she wanted, and I relished the time I had with her.

"Touka, do you want a sibling?" My mother asked me after a few minutes of silence and I looked up at her with no emotion, but my mind whirled with thousands of questions.

Did I want a new sibling?

I bit my lip in thought as my grubby hands latched on to Hikari's shirt, twisting the soft material. Oddly enough, this hadn't been a question that had ever passed through my mind. Over the two years in which I had grown, I had spent a majority of my spare time remembering my siblings. So much time, in fact, that I seemed to have thought that the idea of siblings in this life was never going to happen.

Did I want a new sibling?

"Yes," I said, nodding rapidly and Hikari giggled before her hands reached up to untangle mine from her shirt.

"Well, in a few months, Okaa-san will be having your little brother or sister." Hikari placed her hands on her stomach and I tilted my head as I finally noticed the small bump there. Hikari had been wearing more of Arata's shirts but I had just assumed that it was because they were more comfortable than her own.

Reaching out, I cautiously probed the rounded stomach, my brows furrowing when I didn't get a kick back. Poking harshly again, I scowled when Hikari pulled my hand away.

"Careful, Touka," She said but I refused to look at her, staring unyielding at her stomach as I waited for a reaction, "You're going to have to protect your little sister or brother. There are going to be people out there who are going to want to hurt you, but you have to be strong and remember what's right."

My brows furrowed at her words and I finally glanced up at her, "Why, Okaa-san?"

Why were they going to want to hurt me?

Why had she put so much emphasis on want?

In the time that I had been alive, Hikari had never spoken such foreboding words before and I couldn't help but feel as though our conversation had taken a sharp turn. Hikari's eyes spoke the thousands of words that she never said: pain, sorrow, anger, joy, grief.

"I'll explain it to you when you get older."

She never did...

She never had the chance to.