I am skeptical. I feel like I've gone through enough – gone through too much, in fact – to rely on these simple methods for any kind of help. But if I were to be honest, as I should be, as I am evidently going to be, I would admit that the devil sitting on my chest right now is not a memory of those extreme, unthinkable events from my childhood and university years – not the smells of gunpowder and kerosene and blood, not the scenes of murder, not shock or trauma, not my brother. God, of course I think of him, of course. It still kills me sometimes. Sometimes, I have little flashes of rage at random moments, at my loneliest – while making toast, while shaving in the bathtub. I think of them – all of them, of course, but the Fortners most of all – and I bite my lip and wish I could recant my forgiveness. But who would it help? He's still unconscious. They're still dead. I still love him, and grieve for what he's been through. No, not more sinned against than sinning, but there is still a mound of guilt that is not his, and that is not mine, and it just floats, unclaimable, weighing us down because it's not ours to absolve.

But, no. He is not the reason for my restlessness and anxiety and all else in my life that needs a scapegoat. And I am not without a sense of humor – I see the immense irony in being so tortured by something so positive and beautiful. Kindness as the cause of suffering. Kindness as the cause of cruelty. I don't want to be writing this, really. I am afraid that someone will see, that someone will know my innermost thoughts and use them against me, but I am at the point of such indifference, in this desperate stalemate, that I would actually welcome the publicizing of my feelings as the only possible way to upset this disgusting, irrational silence that has come over me. I almost want someone to laugh in my face and say, "You love this man? But your chances with him are zilch." Anything to turn my blood red again. Where is my courage? I think I'd lost it all when I realized, in retrospect, how crazy and reckless my actions in my attempt to get revenge were. It's like when you're almost hit by a car crossing the street – nothing has happened, but you could have died. And that knowledge scares you, and makes you withdraw.

But these are two different fears. I won't die if I confess my feelings. I won't even get laughed at. The worst thing I could possibly get is a sad smile, some thoughtful pity, an awkward goodbye. Maybe, one always hopes, he returns my feelings. It's unlikely; I'm too young, he's too chivalrous. He would probably think that this is some kind of pubertal phase, and that I would later blame him for taking advantage of me if he so much as kisses my cheek. It's a paradox – it's always a paradox with me, isn't it – things would be easier if he were less sensitive, less righteous, less chaste. But I wouldn't want him then. It's not that I like the chase, it's not about being hard to get, but it is a fact that the reason I love him and respect him so much is the very thing that precludes that love from being realized.

Maybe it is a phase. Maybe I will grow out of it. I feel that, all things considered, I am not dealing with this like a child would. I am not petulant. I am not trying to trap him. I will not bait his selflessness with tears and vulnerability. I want us to be on equal terms, knowing what each wants from the other. I don't want sex as a reward, or a favor, or an apology. I want his feelings more than his actions, and beyond both, I want certitude.

I know I am not supposed to think this way; I know that the whole point of writing in this damn thing is to pour it all out until there is no feeling left. But I am still trying and still hoping that some miraculous turn of events will make him chivalrously reconsider his chivalrous ways and chivalrously decide that loving someone who loves you, whether they be very young or not, is not that bad. I can't even justify it to myself, so how would he justify it to his sense of virtue and probity? I am deluding myself. There is nothing for me there, only embarrassment, and I care for him too much to ruin whatever kind of relationship we have now for a slim possibility of uniting, for a while, in the silly idealism that we should have ceased to believe in.

Yet it is so hard to forget him when he makes it so clear that we are an indelible part of his life. He's visited our mother, for Christ's sake, the woman I haven't had the patience or the energy to track down. He's visited my brother, unmoving, unspeaking, because it's the right thing to do. I wonder how it made him feel to see Johann so weakened. Is a part of him glad, or at least comforted, that Johann is incapacitated? I wonder if he, like me, thinks of him, pale and defenseless, and breathes a discreet sigh of relief because the world is a safer place without him? And then he visits me, caring and kind, warm and cordial, and I hide my discomfort and reciprocate his openness so that he would not suspect anything. We don't mention the past: I've never tried to kill myself, and he's never told me to keep living because he wouldn't know what to do without me.

I stare at his hands and hope that my lust for their protection isn't obvious. His fingers on a scalpel. His fingers on a trigger. His fingers on my fingers, prying my gun away. Had he meant that, or am I losing my mind over a merciful lie? Every day I curse myself for not doing something sooner, at a time when a mistaken kiss could be blamed on my stress or his proximity. Your hand was already in mine, Tenma, I just kissed it out of habit. I didn't mean to play with your hair like that, and I will stop hugging your arm right this instant. Now it's too late for that – I don't have convenient excuses anymore; his body is not constantly next to mine; his body is countries away. And though we hug and touch when he visits, in the most friendly and inconspicuous manner, without a single ulterior motive shining through the sexless brushing of skin, the danger that could have once made a seventeen-year difference seem like an irrelevant footnote is no longer present. I don't have the shield of the edge of death anymore. We are back to the mundane reality of social mores and expectations, with me as the protegee and him as the father figure who would never do anything to compromise or harm me.

When I put things in perspective like that, it's likely that he sees me in the same light I see Deiter. A kid, a sweet, loyal kid who just happened to latch onto the first thing that wasn't broken. Except that I am grown up, and I know what I look like. Does Tenma know what I look like? There has never been a trace of lust in his demeanor, not for me, not for anybody else. He was engaged to a woman to whom lewd humor is like a hello, like the air that she breathes – God, and I am still jealous of her, simply because she's had him, because he was accessible to her in ways that he will never be accessible to me. I pity her, but I also envy her, the ability to bear her fate resolved that it shouldn't bother her. I wonder if it will take me as long to let go of him as it had taken her.

I had this crazy idea, impossible idea that only works when reality is suspended, that my brother should come here, and give Tenma this journal so that all the glitches in our relationship, in what I don't want to be our relationship, are laid bare. But Tenma has a sense of honor and a sense of modesty, and he would only avert his eyes after the first sentence. Sometimes, I wonder if he even has any desires, if he is human enough to ever do the wrong thing because his passion told him so. He must, yet he hides it so well. But so do I – I remember, distinctly, walking through the university library with him because there was a new book on microsurgery that he wanted to look at, and thinking only of how much I would have liked to stop in an empty isle and tear his shirt off his chest as he pushed me, painfully, against the sharp edge of the shelf. My voice was calm, my cheeks not red in the slightest, and I spoke to him casually of my classes as I thought about the feeling of being in his grip while he lost his bashful reserve. I don't know what came over me that day.

What if I said to him, Just for one night, Tenma, just one night, and then we can pretend it never happened? Why would he refuse? I just need to get it out of my system. One night, Tenma. All I ask. We can turn the lights off, we can put a bed sheet over us, you can even put a bag over my head if you want. You can be drunk, you can be drugged, you can do it because you're blackmailed. I will have Johann wake up from his coma and press his gun against your spine until you comply. What am I saying? Look how crazy this is driving me. I don't mean any of this, I just want to be in your arms for a minute, for a moment, for an eternity, but I will settle for less. I will settle for no feelings, no declarations, just your flesh against my flesh until this maddening spell of lust is over, and you will never hear from me again. But that is not what I want either.

Maybe this was a bad idea. I thought writing this would be therapeutic, cathartic, but it is instead making me feverishly aware of how deep my feelings reach and how low I would have to stoop to sate them. He's inescapable. I've tried dating, never getting attached, understand, but simply to have an outlet. And it worked until that poor Polish boy told me that he loved me, and I felt like a broken dam, straining to keep my emotions reined and not walk away in a silent trance, as I wanted to do. I am sick of my own composure. I am sick of deliberation, I am sick of inaction, I am sick of politely pretending that the one person who logically deserves all my love and gratitude has no place in my heart. I owe him my life, I owe him Johann's life, I owe him everything that I have right now. Dieter's happiness. Reichwein's friendship and support. He must know how I feel about him – or is his modesty making him oblivious?

I don't know. I'm back to square one – conflicted but calm, wanting only to know if there is a chance that in that mass of benevolence and guilt, he harbors the ability to allow himself to desire something forbidden. And then, we'll go from there.