As I am writing this, the day of our beach escapade weighs heavily on my mind. Since the last time I saw you, I wish to note the consequences that have unfolded.

For one, something wasn't right with me. It started with a sore throat which I dismissed as allergies regardless of my living in Sunyshore for all my life. The irritation developed into mild coughing which progressed into heavier, wetter rounds accompanied by headaches and chills.

I hid my worsening condition from my parents, who conveniently only came back at night. That week was very busy for them: Mother was head prosecutor for an important case and Father was preparing to negotiate with a renowned company. I needn't inconvenience them.

Yet like all secrets, they were bound to be found. One day, Father returned much earlier than usual to pick up some files. He saw me sprawled facedown on the couch, and when he moved to chide me on my laziness, he discovered that I wasn't breathing. Mother was called, and I was rushed to the hospital.

I despised the hospital. Strapped to a stretcher with an IV in my arm, tethered down by my own weakness. If I was going to waste away in this horrible place with its faded white walls and stench of death, I vowed that I won't die in peace.

But I refused to give up.

Being at that tender age, I failed to comprehend the doctors' medical jargon as they revealed my diagnosis to my parents. Whatever it was wasn't my immediate concern, however. While I battled with consciousness on the gurney, I noticed that my parents tended to glance more at the clock than at me. I could tell that Mother was in a hurry to leave for court, and Father needed to leave to meet with a prospective client. I fully understood their urgency, so I begged them to call Grandfather to stay by my bedside instead.

I loved Grandfather. His presence made me believe that everything would be okay. Yet I thought of my parents more during those sleepless nights at the hospital. What kind of awful son was I to inconvenience them at the most inappropriate of times? I have to be stronger than this… I must be.

A few days after my discharge from the hospital, I developed a high fever. Mother gifted me with medicine: a white bottle of acetaminophen tablets, purchased at the local drugstore. To me, it was a cherished gift from Mother, physical evidence of her concern.

I took my medicine dutifully, one tablet per meal period, yet it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. I still haven't gotten better. Was this medicine defective? No, Mother only got the best money could afford. The problem must lay with me then…

As the days passed, I boldly increased my prescription. Two tablets. Three. Four. Was it working? Was I fixed? I didn't know, and the uncertainty terrified me.

One humid night, I was dusting Father's study when my chest suddenly collapsed. I groped for my acetaminophen bottle and poured however much could fit on my palm. But with a wretched cough, I scattered Mother's gift all over the vacuumed carpet.

As a mild panic overcame me, a loud squawk tore my attention from the fallen tablets to the black crow perched on Father's files. That Murkrow nonchalantly raked its talons along the papers, yet I felt it tearing through my heart instead.

"Stop it!" I hissed, making a mad lunge for that ill-tempered beast. Apparently crows were much faster than humans, and it purposefully knocked over another file as it flew to the bookshelves. Some ignoramus must've left a window open, the same fool who had been confined to this house all day long.

With a vindictive sneer, the Murkrow tore down all the books from the shelves. Red pulsated in my eyeballs, not solely from rage but also horror. My chest heaved as I watched that Murkrow break into Father's locked cabinet and extract a gold watch worth 3x as much as my hospital bills.

"No," I whispered. "Don't. Please, you don't understand what you're doing…"

Of course the Murkrow didn't understand. I had hoped my desperation would reach through our language barrier, but it turned out I was wrong. Dead wrong. With a harrowing cackle, the crow snapped the precious wristwatch in half.

Heavy footsteps rocked the walls of my heart, and when the door flew open, I witnessed my brief life flashing before my eyes.

"Father," I croaked, backing away. "Y-You… You're home early…"

My father saw. He saw his study in shambles, saw the Murkrow about to swallow his gold watch. In a move too fast to see, he rushed forward, grabbing the crow by its throat and flinging it out the window. The gold watch was saved but irreversibly damaged.

Then he turned to me. I barely had time to squeeze out an excuse when he seized my wrist. My sleeve slipped down, revealing the scars from where the Zubat had bitten me. Scars I had tried to hide.

And that's when Mother came in, apparently having came back early as well. She saw Father and me, but her attention slid down to the scattered acetaminophen tablets before refocusing on the suspiciously serrated wound on my wrist. Show anyone this scene, and I guarantee you they'll arrive at one conclusion. I saw that shameful conclusion forming in her eyes.

I wanted to protest, I really did. Stand up for myself, explain what really happened. But at that moment, words failed to leave my mouth. It was as if I had lost the ability to speak.

Their silence spoke volumes, expressing as clear as day their immeasurable disappoint in me as well as sheer annoyance and perhaps a scintilla of repulsion.

I don't think it's wise if I record what happened next. That way, it's like it never happened.

Next morning, there were no clouds in the sky. It was bright. Warm. Natives and tourists enjoying the famous beaches.

Yet I walked the familiar streets with a sense of clinical detachment, a numbness of both mind and body. Before I knew it, I had drifted back to the shoreline, the path that headed Beach Cave. As I stared at the ocean, I recalled how deep the sea really was. Underneath this shimmering façade was an abyss, dark and cold, a world where sunlight could never reach.

If I sought that abyss, would anyone miss me when I'm gone?

Movement stirred on my right, pulling me out of my unhealthy thoughts. It was that Zubat from Beach Cave, the one that favored my blood. It emitted a happy noise as greeting.

"Nice to meet you again," I said, unsure of whether that was true. In all actuality, I felt indifferent. Or was I relieved to see a Pokemon instead of a human?

"You can't drink my blood," I continued. "It's not a matter of limited supply, but I have a lot of acetaminophen in my bloodstream. I'm not sure if that will adversely affect you. Next time, okay?"

The Zubat grinned while I rattled on. Then it sniffed my bandaged wrist, pressing its nose up the protrusion of my vein until it had squeezed itself under my coat.

Oh well. At least I had nonjudgmental company.

I felt a presence on my left and turned, presenting me to that despicable Murkrow. Its head was lowered, its wings tucked stiffly at its side. It sheepishly rolled a sand dollar in my direction, all the while refusing to make eye contact.

"It wasn't your fault," I murmured, more to myself than the crow. "I should've checked if the windows were closed… I should've…" So many possibilities of what could've been done but didn't.

"Sorry," I said. "Didn't mean to bore you. I don't mind your spiting me, but don't do it in the house."

I then buried my face into my arms and kept motionless for as long as I could… which turned out to not last a full minute, as I heard sobbing behind me. Of course, I met the one person I did not want to see.

"My dad's gonna kill me," you whispered.

I was instantly on alert. "What?!"

"I stepped on my phone… He gave it to me for my birthday, and now it's broken!"

"That's it?" I almost blurted but didn't. I swallowed back that spike of irritation as I examined your "broken" phone. Honestly, Cynthia. Such a petty reason to cry.

"Here," I said. "Nothing is wrong with your phone. You merely dislodged the display module."

Your face brightened. "Woah! You fixed it! You're a lifesaver!"

That comment took me by surprise. Were you being sarcastic, or…?

"I haven't seen you around in forever!" you continued, now back to your cheerful self. "I was looking for you, you know. But I didn't know where you lived. I asked around, but people told me weird stuff about you."

My throat constricted. I was too afraid to ask you to clarify, so instead I said, "Aren't you mad at me?"

"What for? You were my hero that day, diving into the water like a Mantyke! My parents really want you to come over so they can properly thank you!"

Me? A hero? You… certainly had a talent for breaking expectations, I'll give you that.

"You're all red now! Why are you dressed like you're going to Snowpoint when it's the middle of Summer?"

Then you grabbed my wrist. And I screamed. When your smile collapsed, I knew that I had made a deadly, revealing mistake.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was soft. Tender, almost painfully so. "Are you hurt?"

"NO!" I shrieked, retreating behind my hood. "Go away!"

"You look so sad."

"W-Why should I be sad?! Nothing happened to me! Mind your own business!"

But I could feel your eyes bearing into my soul, sweeping my heart for the unspoken truth.

"You can tell me," you said gently. "I'll listen."

Cynthia… Oh Cynthia, why must you tempt me so? I did want to tell you. I truly did, but… but if I told you, then you'd tell others. And I could not have that, Cynthia. Please understand.

Instead of being fed up with my stubbornness, you joined me on the sand.

"Wanna hear a story?" you said.

"About what?"

"Uh… I didn't think we'd get further than that. What are you interested in?"

That's a good question. "Do you mind telling me about your parents?"

"Why wouldn't I! Well, my dad's a historian, so he travels around Sinnoh looking for relics. He brings a bunch of treasure back to our house, and Grandma's always complaining about the lack of space. Oh, and my mom was a Pokemon Trainer! She knew Professor Oak…"

As you talked, I found myself smiling. I listened to both your wonderful stories and your voice, which brimmed with spirit.

I then cast my gaze to the sea. With you by my side, I realized that what lay in the bottom of the ocean wasn't an abyss—it was life. A world teeming with both color and light.