Despite the fact that hardly a day had passed since Crusch had parted ways with the Emilia camp, the mere memory sometimes stirred her nerves in unusual ways. It's a feeling so latent and deep that it's close to being impossible to describe: at times, she believed she glimpsed almost disembodied figures among the hues of the thick mist that whipped her mind, but they vanished fleetingly and mischievously when she tried to reach them with her hands.
Frustrated, Crusch couldn't help but sigh helplessly into her room. Or at least the room she had been designated for: her memories were so unusually suppressed of content that none of the elements that surrounded her gave her the warmth of familiarity.
The truth was that she couldn't be less attached to everything around her: even her own name seemed something she clung to by mere commitment. Ever since the archbishops attacked her, her life had been so tainted by the hazy emptiness of nonexistence and uncertainty that she could no longer be sure of anything.
It was such a terrifying feeling that she refused to obey it because any other alternative seemed worse: after all, she was incapable of remembering most of the details of the world she lived in, so abandoning the people who claimed to know her would be absurd, no matter how uncomfortable it was for her to interact with them. This, however, plunged her personal knight into a deep-seated, flammable despair whose depths unsettled Crusch.
On the other hand, to say that her soul was not desperately trying to restore its lost extensions would be a mischievous way of practicing ignorance.
Rem... why do I feel so bad when I think about her?, Crusch said to herself.
Unable to understand the dimensions of her own heart, the candidate, who had begun to act curiously vulgar since she lost her memory, tried again to find meaning in her current life.
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