I stepped back, my movements slow, measured. There was no urgency—no fear. Just observation. Calculation.
Every shift in posture, every minuscule twitch of my fingers, was intentional. There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary reaction. This wasn't hesitation—just patience. I had learned long ago that fear was pointless, that emotions served only to cloud judgment. And so, I had abandoned them, cast them aside like a blade dulled by time.
Yet here he stood, a reflection of a self long past. An echo of something that no longer existed.
I looked into his eyes, our gazes locking in a silent battle of scrutiny. A war without swords, fought only with the weight of perception.
He studied me as I studied him. A mirror not quite aligned.
The other me—him—tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes narrowing with something I could only describe as unease. His expression was a strange mix of recognition and confusion, as if he were seeing something familiar wrapped in an unfamiliar shell. A version of himself that he had not expected to encounter.
His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. His shoulders tensed, then loosened, his breath steady yet somehow unconvincing. Hesitant.
Weak.
I could see it in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if grasping for something intangible—something that had already slipped through his grasp long ago.
"You're not going to say anything?" he asked, his voice quieter than I remembered it being. It was softer. Weaker.
I studied him. Every detail. Every inconsistency.
He looked exactly as I had billions of years ago—before the countless lifetimes, before the endless cycle of bodies and souls that reshaped me into what I was now. He still carried one thing I didn't possess anymore—that trace of humanity, that lingering sense of self that I had long since discarded.
"What's there to say?" I finally replied.
He let out a breath, something between a sigh and a nervous laugh. "You don't even seem surprised."
I tilted my head slightly. "Why would I be?"
His brow furrowed. "Because this isn't normal? Because you should at least question what's happening right now?"
"Does it matter?"
His mouth opened, then closed. I watched as frustration flickered across his face, followed by something else—something dangerously close to disappointment.
"You really have changed," he murmured, more to himself than to me.
I didn't respond.
He took a cautious step forward. "How? When? At what point did you become this?" He gestured toward me, as if I were something foreign, something unrecognizable.
I remained still. "There was no single moment. No grand realization. Just time."
He shook his head. "No. That's not it. Time changes people, sure, but not like this. It doesn't strip them down until there's nothing left. Not unless they let it."
I met his gaze, unflinching. "And yet, here I stand."
His lips parted slightly. A pause. Then, a bitter smile. "You sound like you've abandoned everything."
"Not abandoned," I corrected. "Shed."
He flinched. "Then what's left?"
"Something more."
Silence stretched between us, heavy with things unspoken.
He looked at me, really looked at me, searching for traces of himself. But he wouldn't find them. Not anymore.
I was no longer him.
And that truth unsettled him more than anything else ever could.
The silence between us lingered, heavy and suffocating. He was waiting for a response, expecting something—perhaps defiance, perhaps denial. But I gave him nothing.
His expression shifted, disappointment flickering across his face.
"You really believe that?" he asked, voice quieter now. "That stripping yourself down to nothing makes you more?"
"It does." My response was immediate, devoid of hesitation. "Emotions, attachments, the remnants of what I once was—they only serve as weights. Burdens that limit what I can become."
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That's not growth. That's hollowing yourself out."
I met his gaze evenly. "And yet, I am still here. You are the one left behind."
Something in him flickered, like a candle caught in an unseen wind. A hesitation. A doubt.
Then, he laughed. It was a bitter sound, one laced with something almost like pity.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he murmured. "That you've evolved? That you've become something greater?" He took another step forward, his presence warmer than I remembered my own ever being. "You think losing yourself makes you stronger?"
I remained silent.
He scoffed. "I don't buy it. No matter how much you've tried to erase it, I know you. I am you. And I know there's still something left." His eyes searched mine. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."
I raised a brow. "You assume I had a choice."
"You always have a choice."
I tilted my head slightly, watching him. "Then why are you here?"
His expression faltered.
I took a step forward this time, watching as he stiffened, his certainty wavering. "If I am as hollow as you claim," I continued, "then why do you exist? A memory? A ghost of what I used to be?"
He exhaled, his shoulders tensing. "Maybe," he admitted. "Or maybe I'm here because deep down, you know you've lost something. Something important."
"Sentimentality," I said flatly. "An illusion for the weak."
He smiled, but it was sad. "If that were true, then why do you remember me?"
I said nothing.
Because he was right. I shouldn't remember. Shouldn't feel even the faintest tug of recognition for something I had discarded long ago. And yet—
His presence was undeniable.
Why?
He was warmth where I was cold.
Conviction were I was detachment.
Feeling where I had chosen emptiness.
He took another step forward, closing the distance between us. "You can lie to yourself all you want," he murmured. "But if there was truly nothing left, I wouldn't be standing here. You wouldn't be standing here."
I held my ground, watching him closely. "What are you trying to prove?"
"I'm trying to reach you."
I let out a slow breath. "And if I do not wish to be reached?"
His eyes softened, and for the first time, I saw something strange within them—understanding.
"Then I'll still be here," he said. "Because no matter how much you push it down, no matter how much time passes… I am still you."
His words should have meant nothing. They should have bounced off me like pebbles against stone.
But they didn't.
And that, more than anything, unsettled me.
"One day," he said, his voice growing distant, "you'll realize that what you're doing is surviving, not living."
I watched as he dissolved into light, his presence fading like a memory slipping through my fingers.
The voice shattered.
I was back in my room.
The noise of the dorm returned all at once—the drunken murmurs, the clinking of bottles, the distant laughter. Everything as it was before.
But something felt… different.
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair.
"One day," I murmured to myself