How cruel it is to exist and yet not be seen.
I am here. I am aware. And yet, to him, I am nothing.
He moves through his days without once looking at me. He wakes in the morning, stretching lazily, his hair an unkempt mess, grumbling about the cold as he stumbles toward the bathroom. He eats his meals in silence, the rhythmic clatter of his chopsticks against porcelain the only sound that keeps me company.
He does not speak to me.
Because he does not know I am here.
How utterly pitiful.
I sigh, lowering myself onto what should have been his desk but offers me no solid rest. The surface does not hold me. My existence is weightless, my presence ephemeral.
This is my cage, and he—unknowingly—is its warden.
——
He works hard.
I watch him as he sits at the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, his pen gliding across pages filled with knowledge I do not understand. His mother—stern yet kind—reminds him to stay focused and not let distractions pull him away from his studies.
I wonder what it is he is striving for. What world lies beyond this small, cluttered space?
I long to ask him, to whisper my questions into his ear like a mischievous spirit.
Yet, I cannot.
I am merely an observer, a ghost of his creation.
——
The Black Spirit does not answer me.
I call for it each night when all is quiet when only the ticking of the clock and the soft sound of his breathing fill the space.
I call.
And I wait.
But there is no response.
What has become of it? Was it left behind in the world I was meant to inhabit? Or has it simply ceased to be; its existence erased the moment he abandoned me?
A part of me resents it.
For it, too, should have been bound to me. It, too, should have been here, trapped in this invisible world.
Yet I am alone.
——
I listen when he speaks.
Not to me, of course. But to his mother, to himself, to the world outside.
And through him, I learn.
I learned that this place, this world, is not mine. I learned that my world—Black Desert—is nothing more than a name to him, a game he once played and then forgot.
That knowledge unsettles me.
If my world is but a game, then what am I?
Am I real? Or am I merely something that should not be?
Yet, I feel.
I feel the ache of longing, the weight of solitude, the sting of being unseen.
I feel warmth when I watch him—when I see the way his eyes light up when he solves a difficult problem, the way his lips curve into the faintest smile when his mother praises him.
I feel frustration when he pushes himself too hard when he sighs in exhaustion yet refuses to rest.
And I feel sorrow when I realise that, no matter how much I learn, I will never be a part of his world.
——
I know his name now.
His mother spoke it just this morning, her voice firm yet gentle as she urged him to eat before returning to his studies.
It suits him.
It is neither grand nor poetic, but it is his. And because it is his, I cherish it.
I whisper it to myself when no one can hear.
It rolls off my tongue like a secret, like something intimate and precious.
I wonder if he will ever say mine.
——
Seven emotions. Six desires.
I know about basic emotions and human desires. In Chinese philosophy, call them "Seven Emotions and Six Desires".
I understand them now.
I understand the sorrow of being unwanted. I understand the joy of his laughter, rare as it is. I understand the frustration, envy, longing.
And above all, I understand love.
Not because it was taught to me, but because I feel it, deep within the core of my being.
I love him.
Not as a master. Not as a creator.
But as a person.
The one who unknowingly gave me life. The one who holds me captive, yet also makes this imprisonment bearable.
A foolish love.
A love that will never be returned.
But love, nonetheless.