Strangers passing in the street

By chance, two separate glances meet

And I am you and what I see is me

xxx

You think you have picked up a passenger, sometime since your ascent.

In the beginning, you write it off as a lingering confusion. You fell a long way, after all; you're bound to be a little off. Healing magic can't fix everything perfectly.

All the same: yellow flowers make you think of illness and desperation; the sight of Toriel brings tears to your eyes and warm longing to your heart; your face in the mirror, sometimes, feels like a stranger's, all unfamiliar angles and structure. The pie, left beside you the first night, makes you sob like a little baby, and when M- Toriel comes running, her soft presence more comforting than any plush toy, you can't find an answer for her. Maybe you're just messed up, you tell her. She looks sad.

The snow gives you snatches of laughter, though there is no-one around, and impressions of snowball fights, though you've never participated. Your new friend Sans makes jokes that remind you of your mother, except you never knew her. It makes you uncomfortable, and you pretend you're not deliberately ignoring the shorter skeleton. You're just...preoccupied. Busy. You have work to do, no time to play. You can talk later. Go upstairs, kiddo.

You think he's noticed, and that makes you feel horrible. You're a horrible person. He stays upstairs when you visit Papyrus, and stays quiet when neither of you have a choice. You cringe a little when his gaze falls on you, and you try not to realise how few words you've exchanged. You're sure he's a nice person. Certain he would be a great friend. You know being ignored is not a good feeling. He looks sad.

Waterfall gives you silence. Everything has connotations flavoured by your history alone, and you think maybe the concussion is gone. Your feelings are your own, for better or for worse. Strange, really strange, but better, you decide. Without worse. worseless. Your feelings are your own and they are worseless. The echo flowers make you uncomfortable.

The reprieve doesn't last, of course. You make it to Hotland in peace, but at Papyrus' request you visit Undyne, and you make her panic because she doesn't know what to do with crying children. And you're really crying, this time, and you really don't know why. All you know is that the tea, scalding as it may be, wraps strong, safe arms around you, and your Dad tells you that you must stay determined. It doesn't matter that your father is a thin man and hasn't carried you since you were two, only that Undyne's alarmed embrace can't compare, and neither can Papyrus' when he arrives. You fall asleep wrapped in blankets on Undyne's sofa, and as your tears dry she promises to teach you how to cook another day. They look sad.

Doctor Alphys and Mettaton are breaths of fresh air, but that's only a metaphor and does nothing to cool you down. You're tempted to remove your jumper and, maybe, before you'd arrived here, you would have. But… no. No, not now. You laugh when Alphys asks if you're not hot, say you are, a little, but you'd rather not blind people with your arms. You're not lying, but neither is she convinced. You sense she suspects. If she were braver, perhaps she would confront you. You wonder how that would go. You've rehearsed your lines many, many times, but never once been asked to audition. How would it sound, pronounced by a human tongue? No, shh, turn the volume down.

The echoes tell you about baking with your Mum. How the flour stuck to your skin, and how the faces of those you passed twisted in shock and then relieved understanding. How as time passed those expressions became less and less frequent. Loved, it whispered. It doesn't speak, of course. It's just...impressions. Imprints. Like shadows behind frosted glass. Mettaton keeps a wary… eye? camera? … on you as you marvel silently at the white powder on your hands. He has no face and exhibits little body language, but he seems uncomfortable. It makes a change.

Sans sits across from you at the table, and you see how his eyes- eye sockets- whatever- keep lingering on your sleeve and the white that mars it. You know he sees how yours linger on the bread knife.

He tells you about himself, about his friend behind the door, about his promise. You say nothing. He frowns, searches your face for... for something. kid, he says, and a touch of worry laces his voice, what did i ever do to you? what's wrong?

You break, a little. Face scrunched up like a used tissue, leaking seawater like a pro, you confess: he reminds you of your mother, your mother who barely knew you, your mother who you don't remember, your mother who you don't think could ever have been a happy, jokey person. Your mother who never wanted you, your mother who left you with your father who didn't want you either, but at least made an effort.

Sans is stunned into silence; whatever reason he'd thought up for your avoidance of him is so very far from the truth. He tells you he doesn't know what to say, but offers you a hug instead. You take it, and sob grossly into his jacket. You were right, earlier. He's a good friend.

The Core is like Waterfall: your emotions are free of influence, but it's not soothing to you now. The half-memories are strange and unsettling, but they made you feel like you weren't alone, and being alone is the last thing you want when you've finally started admitting to yourself why you're even here. Words make things real, especially once you've said them, and boy have you spouted a lot of them recently. Your arms itch.

You're so relieved when Mettaton pops up again you're hard-pressed not to cry. He's a welcome distraction, and you end up really getting into the spirit of it and you're almost as distraught as Alphys when his batteries cut out. You're upset with her, of course; you know what loneliness is like, but she could've just said? Well, perhaps not. You're not a psychologist, but you know that sometimes, for some people, things that seem simple to you aren't so simple for them. It's why you always do the shopping. You pat her scaly hand in what you hope is a comforting manner, because you're not sure if she'd appreciate a hug right now, especially from you. She smiles, or tries to, and you think she understands.

When you reach New Home, you're nearly overwhelmed. This place is full of memories, memories that aren't yours, and it hurts. You played in these leaves, ate at this table, stole chocolate from this fridge, but you've never been here before. This is where your mother read you stories by the fire, this is where you wrestled with your brother, this is where your father hugged you and made you tea. This is the bed you slept in, and this is where you died, sick and afraid. It's your locket that you hang around your neck, and it's your gardening blade that you tuck into your belt, and you know the story the monsters tell you because it's your own.

You stumble into the Last Corridor, vision blurred beyond belief through your tears, and you crumble against a pillar because you don't know who you are. Frisk isn't the name your parents - parent - gave you, it's not the name on the school register, and nobody here has asked you for it. They call you my child, kid, buddy, human, punk, darling, and Flowey calls you Chara. You sob into your shirt sleeves, because do you have a sibling, or are you an only child? Do you like gardening, or have never had the opportunity? Are you dead, or are you alive?

That's how Sans finds you, trying to hide in sweater town but making entirely too much noise to fool anyone. You don't care why he's here or how he's here, because he's a friendly face that doesn't appear in one set of your memories and he has a comfortable jacket you feel kinda bad about crying on for a second time. He tells you terrible puns until you're crying from laughter rather than an existential crisis, and though you both know you have to do this last bit alone, he walks with you to the end of the corridor.

You face Asgore. Except you can't, because all you want to do is curl up in his warm arms, and you know he kept the stupid sweater you and your brother made for him, and his house is decorated with the golden flowers you always loved, and you know he still loves you even after all these years and he doesn't want to fight you either. You can't hurt him again, not like before, that's why you punished yourself for it because you knew he'd never hold it against you even though what you did was unforgivable. You throw away the knife and cry again, even as he tries - and succeeds - in impaling you with his trident.

You won't hurt him, you won't, you won't you won't youwon'twon'twon't

And in the end it doesn't matter because Flowey hurts him for you. He was getting impatient, he says, and he kills you. You reload. He kills you again. And again. And again. And again. Save, reload, save, reload, save, reload, save, load failed-

You're free. But you're alone again. Flowey's not done here, but you won't let your efforts, your friendships be for nothing. You won't let Asgore be dead. You become better friends with Alphys, and if the True Lab gives you nightmares later, well, what's one more added to the pile? And then you go back to your father - not your father - and you are determined not to let him die.

And then. And then there is Asriel.

Your brother. Your best friend. You had matching jumpers. You played pranks on him, with him, on everyone. You got angry with him sometimes, don't all siblings fight?, and you called him an idiot and he cried but you loved him, always. You love him still. You laughed together and he asked you about the surface and you told him about everything except yourself. You hated humanity, you told him, but you never said why; you hated them for what they did, for what they didn't, and you hated yourself for being one of them. You are filled with regret, at what you did and what you didn't do, to yourself, to him, to your parents.

But it's not you. It never was. These aren't your memories, this isn't your brother, and that's not your name. It's...a little easier to keep it straight in your head, now, but when Asriel tells you he wishes he'd had a friend like you, you are not sure whose sorrow you are feeling. Does it matter? Does it matter if you are two people, or one person with two lives? They're not there, not really, you're alone in your head but you're left with their thoughts and their grief and when you hug Asriel, you don't want to let go either.

You tell him you forgive him, that you love him, that you always have, always will, that you'll never forget him as long as you live and longer, and when you tell him you wish you'd said it before, at least once, wholeheartedly, you don't think he understands what you really mean, but it's okay. It's okay. The echoes are fading with him, and you are sad to see them go because you will be alone again, all alone, with an empty room and an empty home-

-but you won't, will you? You have your friends. You have your family. And you meant what you said, though you spoke for another. You forgive them. You love them. You won't ever forget them.

And that is enough.