A girl who didn’t like one of my friends told her that her eyes squint different sizes when she smiles, and now whenever she’s happy she look’s down or away.

Well. I want Annie to get a fucking redeemption arc. Please god. Let her join the Eldians and be on the same team as Armin and Eren. 

But in general, like, a conclusion to the entire plot? 

The Marleyans and Eldians come to some kind of agreement where they stay on opposite sides of the world where they can live away from each other long enough to get over their generations of bitterness. 

They can’t settle their differences, fine, but I don’t want to see one side or the other get totally eliminated.

I want them to take a damn time out and try to share the damn world, and realistically, it would take a looong time to get over it. 

Christa lives a long and happy life as a queen and fucking, Isayama, give her a wife or so help me god….

Connie and Sasha are alive and well. They get married and work for the government, maybe in agriculture or management of food storage. 

Levi and Hanji are alive and they get married. They go on adventures together, even when they’re old. Hanji never loses that scientist’s spark and Levi would never leave his last remaining friend  and partner alone. 

Jean…well. I see him being some kind of politician or head in the military. But the military’s not fighting anymore, so he’s really in charge of helping people settle outside of the walls and adjust to the “Real” world. 

I see him getting married, but I don’t know if I see him getting married to Mikasa. He’s the jealous type. 

Mikasa, well.

I’d like to see her branch away from Eren and perhaps use her strength for other things. 

Since in this ending, the fighting is over, she’s now allowed to pursue other interests. 

She’s never cared about exploring, not as much as Eren and Armin. 

I see her…settling down somewhere, keeping to herself, maybe taking care of horses and animals on a farm. 

I don’t see her…chasing Eren and Armin.

Like I know she wants to “be by Eren’s side” but I feel like that’s only because it’s a dangerous world and she feels she needs to protect him. 

I feel like she would trust Eren’s safety with Armin.

Which brings me to my next and final dream snk ending.

Eren and Armin, if they can’t have a cure, go out on a last adventure together.

They know Eren will die.

Armin knows he’ll follow shortly after. 

But Armin wants to show Eren everything before he does.

They travel as far as they can in the time they have left, mapping lands and admiring the view and camping on all kinds of terrain.

They settle down when the time is near and Armin prepares for the end. 

And when Eren does die, he buries him out there, I imagine on a cliff overlooking the sea.

And Armin is alone now, but he’s still got a job to do. 

He writes the entire story, everything that had happened up until that point. 

He leaves it at Eren’s grave for someone to find.

He goes back home to Mikasa, tells her the news. They mourn together and Armin has to tell Mikasa that he doesn’t want her to be alone, to find other friends and family once he’s gone. 

Maybe Mikasa and Jean reconnect here, I don’t know.

I could see that, actually. Mikasa and Jean, old friends, reminiscing about the past and realizing that they’ve been through a lot together and they have more in common than they ever thought. 

Anyway.

When Armin dies, Mikasa has him cremated. 

She goes out, maybe with Jean, maybe with the entire surviving 104th squad, with Levi and Hange with them. 

They bring his ashes out to Eren’s grave and scatter them over the cliff and all of them pay their last respects. 

I don’t know if the book Armin wrote is still intact after years of weathering. 

But what remains of it is still there, near Eren’s grave, and Armin’s too. 

it’s the story of a boy who wanted to see the ocean. 

My name is Courtney, and I was born at 5:15 AM on October 26th, 1988.  When I was born my parents didn’t ask the doctor if I was a boy or a girl, or if I was healthy. Instead they asked, “what’s the number?”

The room braced for the doctor’s answer.  My parents held each other close, both openly crying as they prayed for good news.  “Her number is…” started the doctor, flipping my right wrist over and reading the black numbers that spread across it.  “152310232048.”

My parents cried in relief.  

I would live a good life.  

I had a good number.

You see, in my world, everyone is born with a 12-digit number on their right wrist.  What does the number mean exactly?  Well—the number gives us the day we die.  We don’t know how we will die, but we will—at that exact time.  Think of it like the expiration date you see on a jug of milk.  After the expiration date, you throw away the milk, right?  Well, that is what the marks on our wrists mean.  We obviously don’t get thrown away in the trash, but we cease to exist after that date.  And just like that jug of milk buried in some landfill, we too will be buried in the ground.

My number is 152310232048.

Which means that at 3:23 PM on October 23rd, 2048—I will die.  

I will live to be 59 years old.  

I have a good number.  It isn’t the best number.  My brother is going to live to be 88. My parents, couldn’t believe it when the doctor read his number out loud.  He will live 29 years longer than me.  He will see so much more than me, experience so much more than me.  He might even live to see his great-great grandchildren—I’ll be lucky to see my grandchildren.    

I sometimes get jealous when I see his number.  

But this is my life.  

I can’t change my number.  

It is permanent.  

Medicine, money, and miracles do not change your number. You can certainly die earlier then your number, but to die before your number is rare.  People just tend to be more careful.  After all, when you are constantly walking around with a literal reminder of your time left on earth on your wrist, you tend appreciate the life you have a little more.

I have a good number.  

I’m reminded of this when I see other people’s number.  

The first time this happened was when I was 5 years old.

On my first day of school, I was in kindergarten and I’ve never really interacted with any other kids besides my older cousins. I was nervous, so when recess was called, I decided to go to the swings.  Anyone who liked swings as much as me—well, they were cool in my book.    

On my way to an open swing a wild boy with a dinosaur shirt, and brown eyes full of mischief, performed a back flip off the swings and nearly knocked me over in his crash landing.  He jumped up, dusted off his pants and smiled at me and said, “My names Devon, and I am going to live to be 57.”

It was such a typical kid way of introducing themselves.  Adults tended to be more secretive of their numbers.  Wearing watches, or long-sleeved shirts to cover up their numbers, but five year olds—we didn’t understand the concept of subtlety. 

Clearly.

Another body quickly landed next to him, this one thankfully on their feet.  It was a red-haired girl, with two perfectly braided pig tails.  “My names Fiona, and I’m going to live to be 62.” 

Another body landed next to her.  He stumbled a bit on his landing, and his glasses fell down the bridge of his nose as he found his balance.  “Hi, I’m Oscar,” he smiled, shaking his long brown hair out of his eyes as he pushed his glasses up his nose.  “I’m going to live to be 17.”

Mind you—we were in kindergarten.  We were literally learning our ABC’s, learning how to tie our shoes, and zip up our coats, but the concept of numbers—that we didn’t need to learn.  Our parents made sure we knew what our number was, and what their number was, and what grandma’s number was—numbers were literally ingrained into our minds, much like the literal numbers that adorned our wrists.  

Which meant even at 5 years old, I knew that Oscar—well Oscar, had a bad number.  

It must have showed on my face because the boy—a boy who I didn’t even know, hugged me.  And as he squeezed me, he said, “It’s okay,” before pulling back and smiling.  “My dad’s say that seventeen is plenty of time. They said it is isn’t about how high your number is—but it’s about what you do with the number you get.”

Looking back now, as an adult thinking about having my own child—I’d probably say the same thing to my child if they were born with a bad number.  What else can you do?  You can’t change your child’s number.  You can’t give your child more time, no matter how much you wish you could take the numbers off your wrist and place them on your child’s—you just can’t. Your job as a parent is to protect your children, but you can’t protect them from the inevitable, so instead, you give them something else.

Oscar’s dads gave him hope.  

His dads were great people.  I grew close to them as we progressed through school because obviously, Oscar, Fiona and Devon and me—we became best friends after the day on the swings.  We called our group “The Swingers,” much to the embarrassment of our parents.  We didn’t understand why they didn’t like our group nickname when we were young, but we finally understood when we were 15—and thanks to the internet, we learned exactly what “swingers” were. But even after learning the sexual nature of our group nickname, we still kept it, because honestly, what teenagers didn’t like tormenting their parents?

“Courtney where are you going?  It’s late!”

“Dad said I can go to Oscar’s house!”

“And what will you be doing at Oscar’s house?”

“God mom—we are just having a swinger party, can I go now?”

The look of embarrassment on my parent’s face was always perfect—especially in public.

Speaking of Oscar’s house.  His house became the “hang out” spot for us four.  Mostly because his dads had an awesome basement, and his dad Jerry was professional Chef, which meant we ate good there.  But back to Oscar’s dads—they were awesome.  They adopted Oscar when he was just an infant.  His mother gave him up when she saw his number.  It was an epidemic in our world.  Foster homes were full of children with bad numbers.  

But Oscar’s dads, they didn’t see his number.  They just saw Oscar.  This happy, intelligent, beautiful blue-eyed child who just so happened to be destined to die young.  They didn’t see his number—instead they just saw Oscar.

Devon, Fiona, and I—we only saw Oscar too.  

Most of the kids in our class didn’t really attempt to get to know Oscar, because honestly, what was the point?  He wouldn’t be around for long.  So, it was the four of us—for as long as we had the four of us.

We laughed.

We cried.

We fought.

We experienced our first kisses.

We loved.

We had our hearts broken.

We got drunk once—never again.

We got high—more than once.

We just lived.

“The Swingers” lived every day to the fullest—until the day came when four was about to become three.  Oscar’s day would land just a few weeks before our Senior graduation. We always knew his number, but it never seemed real until it came so close to the actual date on our calendar.

Oscar took accelerated courses so that he could graduate before—his number came up.  The school planned a graduation ceremony just for him the day before his number.  His dad’s and his extended family fills the stands, the rest of his class sit in the chairs, the very same chairs they will soon fill in a couple of weeks when the class of 2007 would all walk together.  The principal called out Oscar’s name, and he stepped up to the microphone.  

Oscar was the school Val Victorian.  He stayed late after school, he studied well into the night, he worked hard—so hard, that his dedication to his studies really got in the way of “swinger” time.  One day, after another late night of not seeing Oscar because he was studying for a Chemistry test, I yelled at him. “It is just a Chemistry test Oscar! If you get a B, it won’t be the end of the world!”

Oscar barely blinked an eye at my outburst, instead, much like that day in front of the swings—he pulled me into a hug. “Look, this is the only time I have to be great,” he said.  “I don’t get anything after this.  So, if this is all I get—I’m going to be the best.”

And he did.  

He became the best.

A 4.0 grade point average

An SAT score of 1560.

And he never filled out a single college application.

Oscar cleared his throat in front of the microphone, garnering everyone’s attention.  “Thank you for everyone who came today.  It means a lot, to me. Very much like my life, I’m going to keep this speech short.”

Gasps echoed through the gym and Oscar smiled.

“That was not meant to be a joke.  Please don’t think that I am making light of the fact that tomorrow is my number.  Instead, I say that I will keep this speech short—because I think the world tends to greatly underestimate the power of something short.”

“My mother gave me up for adoption when I was only 1 minute old.  As soon as the doctor read my number, she signed over custody of me to the state.   I always wondered, how can I be judged of my quality of life, before I’ve even taken my first shit.”

Laughter echoed from the students, gasps echoed from the parents, and grumbles of disapproval echoed from the teacher’s and administration. But Oscar just smiled, as he looked back at the principal.  “Feel free to give me a detention this weekend for cussing,” he joked, earning another chuckle from the students.  

“She was wrong—by the way,” continued Oscar, his gaze going back out to the gym.  “Anyone who ever stared at my number, and looked at me with sadness—you were wrong. I have lived—not as long as our parents and not as long as you all will live—but make no mistake, I have lived.  My life may have been short, but it doesn’t mean it has been any less significant as someone who lived well into their 80’s.”

Taking in a breath, he gave his parents and then the swingers a shaky smile. “Every second of every single day for the past seventeen years—have been lived to the fullest because simply, I didn’t have the time to waste.  Every moment of my life has counted, cherished and loved—can you say the same thing about yours?”

Oscar died on 2:13 PM on March 16th, 2007.

Like his number said, he lived to be 17.

He had a bad number

But he didn’t let his number define him.

Instead he lived every day, until his number was called.

**This is a short story that just came to me after watching an incredibly sad movie about a woman dying of cancer.  While the movie was sad, I couldn’t help but notice that she never really started living until she found out she was dying.  Which then made me wonder, how would a person live if they knew when from the moment they were born, when they were going to die?  

Firstly this boy came from a difficult home life. His father was in hospital, likely to die, and his mother was flirting with other men which made her and Eiji’s relationship have a lot of tension. Eiji was also the only male of the house so felt as through he was under a lot of pressure.

His career was going downhill as his height began to become a major disadvantage and he had to work way harder than his other competitors. He struggled a lot during his last year as a competitor, always just losing and coming in 2nd.

He then suffered an injury that forced him to retire from his only passion.

He’s so strong to get through that and we’re just starting.

He then ventured to a foreign country where they spoke a language he was not familiar with to study US street crimes. Then this dude almost immediately got kidnapped.

He questioned nothing about all this violence and immediately trusted Ash with his whole heart.

He’s insanely emotionally strong and this quality of his goes unnoticed.

For goodness sake, he had a fairly normal, albeit depressing, life prior to coming to the US but immediately adapted to it. That takes a lot of mental strength and stability.

He’s able to offer comfort to all those around him and seems to have a quality that people instantly fall in love with.

There’s a lot more to say but I just wanted to get it out there.