Alice.

“So.” Remilia's tone was subdued. “You seem ready to talk about this now, huh?”

“...to this day, I still can't remember a thing.”

The author was in his room, sitting in his computer chair and fixated on his monitor while Remilia sat on his bed, leaning against the wall. Her eyes weren't fixed on anything, they lurked about the room contemplatively.

“This is something even I haven't really wanted to ask about.” she said, her glances avoiding the author. “I don't know much about it. Or when it started or how it happened.”

“I still don't, even now.” he muttered in a resigned tone. Denial was his shield, his protection to avoid having to peer through the gas-lit haze that dwelled over his head every November and December. He managed to avoid bringing this weight directly back into his life for well over a decade, but Remilia's subtle and meddlesome prodding was unearthing it.

“Okay, to be fair, it wasn't just me.” she interjected into the narration. “I think you had a few things go wrong to lead up to this.”

“Mmm.”

“Like worker girl setting you off.”

“I forgot she even did that.”

“I remember it because it made you paranoid and crazy again.” a bit of mischief made its way back into her voice. “A good set-up to what was sure to come after~.”

“I wouldn't use 'good' in that context.”

“And what happened with her.” she emphasized. The author didn't like the emphasis.

“...it always comes back to her, doesn't it.”

“Eventually, yes~.” The banter ceased and a silence settled back into the conversation. There was a steadiness to the anxiety that permeated throughout the room. The air couldn't be stirred without using words he didn't want to utter in a particular cadence. The author knew the moment he did, he couldn't pretend it didn't happen anymore.

“I lost an important friend a very long time ago.”

The tension eased a bit. And then it intensified for a moment before dispersing altogether. There was an unpleasant catharsis that came out of his chest as he spoke. The anxiety was gone, but it was replaced by grief. Remilia always knew, at least on a vague level. She loosely knew that the author held onto something he couldn't forgive himself for, that he couldn't let go. But the dark places in the author's head that even she couldn't get to kept it buried.

“You still think about it, don't you?” she asked timidly. “About her?”

“Always.” he answered. “I think about her more than almost everyone else from back then.” Remilia was careful about how to approach the author. Any missteps could drag the memory back into the dark, possibly further than it had been before.

“Even if there's nothing to really remember?”

“Always.” he sighed. The author couldn't remember much at all from that time in his life. It was a patchwork of incoherent thoughts and random emotions tangentially related to particular situations. The concreteness of it all was undefined. Any events he almost recalled he could only do so because of loose associations with how it made him feel at that given time. Nothing was certain; everything didn't quite feel fictitious but wasn't entirely settled in reality either. Whenever he expressed his thoughts and wrote, it always vaguely felt like a scenario constructed around his sporadic and unpredictable feelings in order to anchor them, to give them a justification. Subconsciously he knew they were still real, and committing it to writing forced him to own it. But he didn't want to own this. Even as he sat in that room with Remilia, he still wanted to flee. He knew Remilia wouldn't let him, though. She was already eased in, she wasn't going to let this opportunity leave.

“...I'm right here, Pa. I know what you're saying.” She slumped over onto her side and looked up to see the back of the author's chair. He rocked back and forth in it a bit. It needed WD-40. The creaking was in sync with every other tic on his analog clock.

“What was her name?” Remilia asked. The author hesitated. It was the only thing of her's that he kept, that he remembered.

“...Alice.”

“That's a good name.”

“She was a good girl.”

“Yeah?”

“I talked with her about a lot of things.” he said. “A lot of things I couldn't talk about with my girlfriend at the time.”

“Like what?”

“Well, my deteriorating relationship with her, for one. And the thing that happened to me that I didn't want to tell my girlfriend about, either.”

“Why'd you find it easy to talk to her about that?” she asked.

“Don't know, really. I felt comfortable around her.” The author leaned back in his chair. “Girls that age treated me like shit a lot. I didn't trust most of them. Especially after the rape business.” Remilia rolled onto her stomach with a cautious yet curious look on her face.

“What made her different?”

“Can't really remember. She had no reason to be nice to me. She was just mutual friends with people who lived in my apartment complex. I bumped into her on my way home and she ran her mouth and managed to get me to actually talk a bit. Initially I was uncomfortable as Hell but I felt like she was lonely. She would sit on the curb with me and she'd just talk about things and I would listen.”

“I can't imagine you doing that with anybody at that age, to be frank.” Remilia said. She was a bit perplexed.

“She also brought me pizza one day while we sat there.”

“Okay now I'm no longer confused~.”

“She was just a nice, chipper girl. She had that disposition that my girlfriend had where she could notice what my mood really was, but she was a bit more headstrong and curious to ask about it. Eventually I just told her that one of the reasons I stayed outside with her was because I didn't want to go into the house with my mother, and then things just sort of went from there.”

“I figured you would be deterred by people from that.”

“I know, right?” the author agreed. “But, I guess, my girlfriend was always that detached person who never said much. I knew she cared, but she never really went out of her way to express it. And after what was happening, I guess I eventually just wanted to talk to somebody who acted like they cared. And she had ideas about it too, she always seemed depressed herself. There was just some comfort there that I wasn't used to having. It was nice to have somebody who was invested and tried their best to empathize.” There was a bit of silence after he said that. The author knew what Remilia was going to ask. Remilia didn't want to ask the question. It was a question that she dreaded the answer to, because she knew how everything fell into place afterwards.

“...what happened to her?”

“She committed suicide.”

“...oh.”

“Yeah.”

The tension came back into the room. The author's voice strained itself answering the question, the matter-of-fact tone undermined the stress. Remilia didn't know how to continue the conversation. The girl who normally had such a good read on the author was at a loss for what to say.

“I mentioned she was also clearly depressed.” the author stated.

“Right.”

“She never really outright talked about it. You could tell, though. In her mannerisms during her conversations, making vague allusions and references, almost as if to provoke a question of concern. I never asked, though. I couldn't.”

“Why's that, Pa?”

“Was being a stupid teenager wrapped up in my own problems. There was that thought of being selfish, or that thought of not knowing how to approach her without fucking it up. I didn't know how to talk to people back then.”

“You still don't, Pa. That's why we're here.”

“Fair.” He let out a deep breath. “And it's not like. It's not like I even found out or saw her do it or anything. I just didn't see her around for a week or so and I saw my neighbors she used to hang out with and I asked her where she's been. And they had to awkwardly tell me and that was it. She was just gone. That part was done. It was left there after all it happened. Didn't talk to her friends anymore after they told me and I gave a few condolences to them.” The author stopped rocking in his chair. Words became difficult. “I was numb from everything. Everything in my life was imploding at that time, it all just blended together into a cacophony of nonsense I've tried my best to stop thinking about.” But the author didn't. He never stopped thinking about Alice. That was the name he associated with her because it was the only thing even vaguely familiar to him. He couldn't remember anything but the name he clung desperately to, still unsure if it was actually hers at all while he was drowned by the mire of thoughts during the winter. It was a name that pulled down everything, tied to baggage of immeasurable weight that couldn't be discarded or forgotten. Before he noticed, Remilia was leaning against the chair behind him.

“You always said that you associate feelings more with what happened rather than the situation.” she said.

“I did.”

“What feeling is associated with this?”

“Guilt.”

“And why's that?” The question made the author let out another sigh. His breath trembled this time.

“I feel guilt that I don't remember anything about this person. Even now, I can't honestly believe for sure that it happened, if that was even her name.”

“But it's her name to you, that's what matters.” she reassured.

“And I feel guilt because I saw something wrong and I wanted to help. But I didn't for whatever reason.”

“You were young and going through a lot, you can't expect that from yourself.” she argued.

“And I feel that guilt again every time I see one of my friends or anybody going through a crisis, and am too paralyzed with fear to say anything or ask because I'm taken back there whenever it happens.” There was a somber bitterness to his voice. No tears, just exhaustion. “There is always that guilt that I wanted to do more, but I didn't. Or I couldn't, because my capacity to help others is admittedly low. Everything you say is correct, Remilia. And logically, I know all of that, but—”

“But the feeling won't leave regardless.” she resigned. “I know, Pa.” The author knew everything she was going to say during the conversation, he rehearsed it in his head, with the darkness enough that—despite talking about it—it still had a firm grip on his conscience. It was resilient, and normal words wouldn't loosen the guilt either.

“Lucas.” Her voice made the author's shoulders curl.

“I told you not to use that name. It makes this shit real.”

“You know what I'm going to say.” She wrapped her dainty arms around the author from behind and rested her chin on his head. “You gotta let this go.”

“Don't know if I can. Feel like I'd lose something important if I did.”

“You'll never know if your intervention would've changed anything regardless. That's the thing about depression, and that's the risk anybody takes when helping a depressed person. That it still might not mean anything. You know this, your friends know this.”

“I know I do.”

“But—”

“But I didn't even try.” he choked out. Remilia felt faint drops onto her arms while she was embracing the author.

“What would you say to her if you had the chance?” she asked. “If she was here?”

“...that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being a bad friend. I'm sorry for never talking to you about your problems when I knew you always had them. I'm sorry that I always came across as indifferent to them when I was just scared to inquire. I'm sorry for how oblivious I was to how much you cared about me. I'm sorry for trying so long to pretend none of this ever happened. I'm sorry that I can't remember how any of this ever happened. I'm sorry for wondering where you might be if you had somebody help you. I'm sorry that I haven't forgiven myself for it. I'm sorry that I probably won't. You were a good friend and a good person nobody could reach in time. I love you, alright? I'm sorry.” Remilia let him breathe for a bit. She tightened her arms around him.

“Do you really think you can never forgive yourself?” she asked.

“Can't say. I probably won't.” There was a cease in the conversation while the author attempted to stifle himself. There was still a lot to unpack for Remilia. Her associations with the author, her relationship with him being so closely tied to this girl she'll never meet, that she probably won't hear any more stories about. But at least, now it happened, and the girl she would never meet had existed at some point, and it gave Remilia a bit of reassurance. She let out a bit of a smile.

“Nah,” her endearing voice reverberated on the back of his head. “I think you will eventually. Not now.”

“God no, not now.”

“But I would think she would want you to, if she was any good of a friend.” The author scoffed at her remark.

“She was a great friend,” His tone was adamant. “Much better than you.”

“Oof. Brutal~.” Remilia let out a coy smile. “So... did you sleep with her~?”

“NO. JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU.”

“What, WHAT? I was curious~! Was she cute~?”

“Oh for the love of God, we were having a moment and you fucked it all up.” He broke her embrace and stood out of his chair, muttering expletives to himself. Remilia grabbed his hand and turned him towards her.

“It's going to get better now, right~?” She had a cheeky smile on her face. “It's out there, and there's nothing to say about it further for now. You won't get better now, and you won't get better quickly, but you probably will. Right?”

“I'm still probably going to feel like shit about it.”

“I don't expect you to forgive yourself soon, Pa. Lord no, not you of all people. But eventually.”

“Eventually.”