"Perhaps you've heard of the Piano Man, the man found in England in 2005. He was discovered wandering, confused and unable to recall any part of his life, not even his own name…" Professor Eli's words faded in and out of my consciousness, as I stared at the huge oak tree outside the classroom.
The gnarled branches seemed to stretch into infinity, reminding me of the tangled web—one that mirrored the confusion I felt lately because of one person, someone that I never knew would create a disaster in my head.
The Karina I want is you. At least get that fact straight.
It's been a week since we had that conversation, yet it still lingered in my mind—leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions that refuse to fade. The doubts that seep into me, questioning whether everything that's happened to me so far—from the soul switch to the uncanny coincidences—grew, the more I spend time with Kairos.
I couldn't help but think that this might be all just a fleeting illusion, a space between life and the afterlife, where I am trapped—wandering without knowing where I truly belong. Or perhaps, this was Sol's way of punishing my soul for choosing death? Had I condemned myself to this twisted fate, caught between realms, simply because I couldn't bring myself to embrace the life that was meant to be saved by Achilles?
"Stop spacing out, my lady." A soft whisper from behind, stop my mind for trailing off even further. his usual lazy posture was evident as he leaned back against his table, eyes shut in that half-asleep state he often does during class.
He opened his eyes and met my gaze, a teasing glint flashing in them, and added in a whisper, "What? Can't stop thinking about me?"
I looked away, shaking my head—not out of disdain for his boldness, but because of how effortlessly he could rattle my heart with the simplest words. Kairos speaks to me in a manner that feels made my thoughts about him, both impossible and strangely plausible. Every word he imprinted on me hung in the air, making me question everything I'd known—everything I'd believed—from my world and to this world.
There were moments that I wanted to confront him—his identity, what he knew about me—but the possibility of him being the same person as I perceived him to be, felt like an outlier, a statistical anomaly—a miscalculated algorithm, producing nothing but errors. But then, Kairos being a variable that led to an undefined result, I'm left questioning whether I've lost touch with my own reality—questioning even the origin of my existence.
"His case is an example of dissociative fugue, a form of psychogenic amnesia, where the individual doesn't just forget—they completely disconnect from their identity. And sometimes, they adopt a new one. But for him, it wasn't a new name or a new face—it was the piano. Despite the amnesia, he could still play as if it was second nature." Professor Eli's words take me back to present.
His words strike me in an unexpected way. This case of psychogenic amnesia—of losing oneself—makes me think about the moment I stepped into this world—this body, this other Karina who used to own everything.
Can a self, vanish entirely, only to be replaced by someone else? Isn't that exactly what happened to us? The only difference is that Karina and I—despite sharing the same face and name—are two entirely different individuals from two entirely different worlds.
I died in my world. No—I wasn't even real. She and I weren't the same. I was just a product of her imagination that was brought to life by some unexplainable means—in this world, at least.
Despite reminding myself of that, the thought of being a product of imagination and the notion of adopting a new personality weighs heavily on my mind. She was gone—her timid existence erased; Our soul switched—as far as I know. I am sane, yet I still couldn't help but question the very foundation of my own existence for one reason.
How did Karina switch our souls if the magic I know doesn't exist in this world?
No matter how much I looked within her memories, it remained as a missing puzzle—hidden beneath the layers of untold truth.
"How do we explain this? How can someone forget everything but still retain this skill, this part of themselves? The answer is murky, but it's clear that trauma, when severe enough, can distort not just memory but our very sense of who we are. The mind shields itself from the unbearable, but in doing so, it fragments the person we once were." Professor Eli continued as his gaze swept across the room, but all I could think about is what I have been living through.
A student raised his hand, "What difference it had with dissociative amnesia caused by Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? If it was caused by severe trauma, then why it wouldn't fall out under PTSD?"
Professor Eli's expression shifts slightly as he absorbs the question, but he's quick to respond, his voice steady.
"Dissociative amnesia is a memory loss related to trauma, where specific aspects of the traumatic events are blocked from the conscious mind." He turns to the whiteboard, and I could hear the distinct scratch of his marker against it as he begins drawing three columns, neatly dividing his explanation.
"Psychogenic amnesia" he writes, "Is a condition where the individual experiences memory loss of personal information, often related to a traumatic or stressful event." He pauses, raising his index finger, pointing to a particular phrase, "Take note, memory loss of personal information." His voice is precise, like he's driving home the importance of the distinction.
He writes again, and the words dissociative fugue appear in bold, underlined. "Dissociative fugue," He continues, "Is a subtype of psychogenic amnesia where memory loss is accompanied by sudden, unexpected travel or wandering, and sometimes the adoption of a new identity." He taps the board, emphasizing three distinct phrases. "Memory loss. unexpected travel or wandering, and adoption of new identity."
He turned to face the class again, "Remember this—dissociative amnesia is selective, psychogenic amnesia is a loss of autobiographical memory without physical movement, and dissociative fugue is a combination of leaving one's usual environment and memory loss, and sometimes adoption of new identity." He pauses, letting the weight of the words settle in.
The distinctions between them blurred my questionable sense of origin. My circumstances felt eerily similar—almost identical, in fact—except for one crucial difference: my memories remain intact. In fact, I have both of our memories, although not everything was surrendered to me, the distinction still settled down the chaos in my head. Still, I want to make sure of things.
I raised my hand, my curiosity overpowering the silence that had settled in the room. Professor Eli shifted his gaze on me.
"Yes, Miss Azalena?"
I hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath before finally speaking. "But what if someone remembers everything, yet still assumes they are a different person? Could that still be considered a form of dissociative fugue, or is that something else entirely?"
Professor Eli tilted his head thoughtfully. "Ah, that's a complex scenario." He said slowly, "What you're describing sounds less like psychogenic amnesia and more like a deep dissociative identity disorder." He turned back to the board, adding a new column for dissociative identity disorder.
"If an individual with Dissociative Fugue may experience identity confusion, then in dissociative identity disorder, an individual experiences identity fragmentation, where separate personalities or identities can take control at different times." He wrote two words on the board: "The host is the main personality, while the fragments, or the other identities, are called alters."
Now what? I'm just another personality created because of her severe trauma or something?
I thought to myself but instead of letting my mind spiral into another bout of uncertainty, I raised my hand again. "What if the host vanished, and the alter took over—for good?"
Professor Eli paused for a moment, considering her question carefully. "That's a very interesting scenario, Miss Azalena." I could feel everyone's gaze on me, but it was the weight of the stare from the person behind me that seemed to linger the most. Still, I had my focus on the answer to my question, determined not to let my thoughts wander further because of someone.
"If the host vanishes and the alter takes over permanently, it could indicate a shift in the dissociative structure of the individual's psyche. In typical cases of dissociative identity disorder, the host and alters coexist, and there are periods of switching between identities. However…" He paused and stared at me for a moment before he continued. "If the host identity truly disappears and the alter remains in control, it could signal the collapse of the psyche—where the alter essentially becomes the dominant personality. This might lead to what we call 'identity fusion'—where the boundaries between the host and alter vanished, and the individual adopts the alter's identity as their own, often without the original host's awareness."
And as if he could see through my confusion, he thoughtfully added, "In extreme cases, this could also point to the possibility of a chronic dissociative state, where the individual no longer identifies with their past self at all."
"Then is it possible that an alter have a different memory? A different reality perhaps—that is far from the host's memory?" When I raised another question, the other students briefly turned to look at me, but just as quickly, their gazes slid back to Professor Eli, as if they were also waiting for answer to the series of question that I've been throwing.
Professor Eli nodded slowly, his gaze shifting as he pondered about my question, "Yes, it is indeed possible," he replied, his tone more contemplative now. "Alters can develop their own distinct memories and perceptions of reality. Since Dissociative Identity Disorder involves a fragmentation of the self—each alter can form their own identity, with its own memories, beliefs, and even behaviors. The alter's reality may be shaped by the experiences and perceptions that are unique to them, often entirely separate from those of the host. This means that, in some cases, an alter may have memories of events that the host has no recollection of, or they may have a completely different worldview."
He paused for a moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. "However, the host and alters often exist within the same overarching psychological framework. Their separation is usually more psychological than physical, but the divide can be deep enough that their realities seem worlds apart."
Curiosity lingers in the air as I tossed out another question.
"What if the alter's memory is something out of this world? something akin to past life? And that same alter also have the memory of the host? And the lives they lived are way too different? Just like their personalities?"
Professor Eli's eyebrows furrowed as he processed the question, clearly intrigued. "That introduces an even more fascinating layer to the discussion. If an alter possesses memories that seem 'out of this world,' perhaps akin to past lives, then we enter the realm of something much more profound. In cases of dissociative identity disorder, memories are usually tied to the experiences and perceptions of the alter's current existence, but the concept of past life memories could be seen as a form of deep dissociation—a disconnect from the current self, where the alter believes or experiences memories that are not their own."
He paused for a moment, thinking carefully. "It is possible for an alter to have access to the host's memories. The mind can compartmentalize memories, so while the host's memories might be hidden or fragmented, an alter could still tap into them if the mental boundary between them isn't strong—or in such cases, where the alter was dominant. This can lead to a complicated situation, where the alter not only has a different personality but also carries two separate histories—one from the host's life and one from their own, or even, if we entertain the idea, from a past life."
The more question I asked, the more complicated I feel. I felt a gentle tug from behind me—as if telling me to stop asking further questions that would make me feel an even more sense of loss. But I proceed and still asked another question, "Then what if the memory an alter holds... contains their own death?"
Professor Eli's expression shifted slightly, as though the question took him by surprise. Yet, after a short moment of contemplating, he finally answered. "If an alter has memories of their own death," he said slowly, "it suggests a deep level of dissociation and trauma. The mind may construct such memories as a defense mechanism, perhaps in an attempt to reconcile with a painful or overwhelming experience. In some cases, an alter may believe they have lived and died, even if those memories are not based in the reality of their current life. It could also point to unresolved trauma or a strong emotional event that the psyche struggles to integrate."
He paused before continuing, his voice quiet. "The mind can manifest these types of experiences as part of a coping mechanism for the soul's fragmentation. But whether those memories are literal or symbolic... that is something we may never fully understand."
I finally fell silent, the weight of his words lingering in the air. The room seemed quieter somehow, as if his answer had opened a door to a place that I wasn't ready to fully understand. My mind raced with new questions, but I couldn't bring myself to voice them after all the things I heard, until the bell rang, signaling the end of the class.
"Although we veered off topic, I hope you learned something," Professor Eli said, his gaze shifting toward me with a small smile. "Thank you, Miss Azalena, for your thought-provoking question." His voice was steady, but there was an unexpected respect in it. "You've certainly given us all something to think about." He uttered and left for his next class, leaving me in an even more chaotic state of mind, although it didn't last when Kairos called my name.
"Rin…"
I glanced over my shoulder and met his serious gaze. "What?"
He casually tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "Next time, just ask me."
"Why?" I snapped, swatting his hand away. "Do you even know the answer to my questions?"
Kairos just flashed a sheepish grin, "Just ask." He leaned back to his table and added, "Who knows, maybe I really know the answer you're looking for."
"…"
He smiled, "You just need to ask one right question, my lady."
I wanted to confront him, to ask him everything that had been keeping me up at night. But my fear intensified as he kept with his subtle way of revealing his aces. The more he challenged me to make him lay his cards down, the stronger the overwhelming sense of unpreparedness I felt.
So, I chose to fold. "Not now."
I wasn't ready yet. Not now, when I was questioning even my sanity, fearing that everything I had tried to rebuild as Karina of this world would crumble like a Jenga tower—one wrong move, and it would all fall apart.
Kairos reached for my hand—casual yet there was a sense of respect in his touch. He brushed his lips against the back of my hand, never breaking eye contact, as he said—almost sounds like a vow…
"I will wait."