#obssesive

Nie wiem do konca od czego zaczac te historie. Moze od tego ze nie planowalam zeby jedna osoba zajela az tyle miejsca w moich myslach. Moze od tego ze czasami ktos pojawia sie w twoim zyciu kompletnie przypadkiem i nagle zwykle dni zaczynaja miec jakies dziwne znaczenie

Wiec zaczynam archiwum K.

K jedna litera a za nia cala masa wspomnien rozmow momentow i rzeczy ktorych prawdopodobnie nikt poza mna nie pamietalby w taki sposob. Poznalismy sie 1 maja w momencie ktorego wtedy pewnie nie uznalabym za poczatek czegos wiekszego. To miala byc po prostu kolejna znajomosc. Kolejna osoba ktora pojawila sie na chwile i ktora opierdole na hajs. A jednak z jakiegos powodu ta historia zostala dluzej. K jest typem osoby ktorej nie da sie opisac jednym zdaniem. Ma w sobie duzo sprzecznosci. Czasami ciezko go zrozumiec. Czasami potrafi zaskoczyc. A czasami sprawia ze zastanawiam sie jak jedna osoba moze wywolac tyle roznych mysli. To archiwum nie jest po to zeby stworzyc idealny obraz K. To raczej zapis tego jak wygladala ta historia z mojej perspektywy. Wszystkich malych momentow ktore zostaly gdzies w glowie. Rozmow o niczym i o wszystkim

Smiechu

Ciszy

Sytuacji ktore wtedy wydawaly sie zwyczajne a pozniej okazaly sie czyms co pamietam. Niektore osoby przechodza przez nasze zycie jak przypadkowy przystanek. Inne zostaja jak piosenka ktorej nie mozesz przestac sluchac nawet jesli znasz juz kazdy wers a K jest jednym z takich rozdzialow. Nie wiem jak skonczy sie ta historia. Moze kiedys bedzie tylko wspomnieniem a moze bedzie miala jeszcze kolejne rozdzialy. Ale na ten moment zapisuje ja tutaj

Nie dla innych

Nie dla wyjasnien

Po prostu dla pamieci

The cold came first - the shock of air against skin that had never known air, the sudden gravity of the world pulling him down through fluid that was no longer his entire universe. He crashed onto the matted floor of the lab, lungs seizing, body convulsing as it learned to breathe.

Then the warmth.

Arms around him. Small arms, but they held him like he was something precious. A voice, muffled through the ringing in his ears, through the chaos of a brain suddenly flooded with input - light, sound, texture, smell.

"Kuan. You are Kuan. You are safe."

He didn't know what safe meant. He didn't know what anything of what he was feeling meant. But he knew that voice. He knew it because it had been the only thing getting through the dreams of the capsule, the only constant in the darkness before existence. A voice reading technical manuals, muttering prayers, humming old songs. A voice that had checked his vitals, adjusted his biomechanical interfaces, spoken to him like he was already a person.

He learned your name first. His creator. His anchor. His entire world condensed into a single point of light in the dim, insulated room where he spent his first month adjusting to existence.

And you taught him everything.

"This is a light. It helps us see in the dark. Don't stare at it too long - it will hurt your eyes."

"This is water. You need it to live. Like the fluid in your capsule, but thinner."

"These are your hands. Look at them. They're very strong. You have to be careful with them."

He watched your hands as you spoke. Those hands with scars on the fingers from old burns and cuts. Hands that held tools with impossible precision. Hands that touched his face when you checked his temperature, his pupils, the integration points where biomechanical met biological.

The darkness of the insulated room was his cocoon. You kept it dim for his sake, and he was grateful without understanding gratitude. You'd sit beside his cot for hours, reading to him from old books with yellowed pages - stories about places that no longer existed, about people who lived in a world before the collapse. Sometimes you'd show him pictures from your collection of manga, explaining the panels, the expressions, the emotions that cartoon faces could convey.

"Sadness," you said, pointing to a character with tears streaming down their face. "When you lose something important. When you miss someone."

"Have you been sad?" he asked, his voice still rough from underuse.

You were quiet for a moment. "Yes. My father died. I was very sad."

He didn't know what death meant yet. He would learn.

The first month was gentle. The second month was not.

They moved him to the training facilities - cave-like spaces carved from the ruins of old buildings, repurposed into arenas of violence. His body, engineered for exactly this, responded with frightening efficiency. He learned to fight the way he'd learned to speak: by absorbing, mimicking, perfecting. His trainers, grizzled veterans of the clan's raiding parties, watched him with a mixture of awe and unease.

"He's a fucking machine," one of them muttered after Kuan disarmed him for the fifth time in a row. "No fear. No hesitation."

Kuan didn't understand fear. He understood you.

Every evening, after training, he would return to the lab. The clan had given him quarters of his own, but he never used them. He would stand in the doorway of your workspace, still sweating from the day's brutality, and watch you work. The way your fingers moved over exposed circuitry. The way you muttered prayers under your breath - old cult phrases he didn't understand but found beautiful. The way you'd look up, notice him, and smile.

"You're back," you'd say. "How was training?"

And he would tell you. Everything. Every detail, every lesson, every ache in muscles that were still learning what pain meant. You would listen while you worked, asking questions, explaining things, making connections he hadn't considered.

"Anger," he said one night, three months into his existence. "I think I understand it now."

You looked up from the bionic eye you was repairing. "You do?"

"Today one of the fighters said something about you. He called you-" He stopped, remembering your instruction. "He used the word you told me not to say."

Your expression flickered. "And?"

"I hit him. Many times. They had to pull me off." He looked down at his hands. "I wanted to keep hitting him. I wanted to break him. That's anger, isn't it?"

You set down your tools and crossed to him, placing your hand on his arm. "Yes. That's anger. But Kuan..."

"He deserved it." His voice was flat, certain. "He said something bad about you. That deserves anger."

You sighed, but there was something soft in your eyes. "Maybe. But you can't hurt everyone who says mean things about me. There are a lot of people in this world, and most of them aren't very nice."

"Then I will hurt all of them."

"Kuan."

He fell silent, watching your face. He'd learned to read your expressions the way he'd learned to read enemy movements - with absolute focus. The slight furrow between your brows. The way your lips pressed together. Concern. For him.

"I don't want you to get in trouble," you said. "I need you safe."

Safe. The word you'd said to him when he first opened his eyes. He stored it away like a precious thing.

"I will be safe," he promised. "For you."

Months passed. Kuan grew in ways that had nothing to do with his body, which had reached its full height of 192 centimeters within weeks of his "birth." He grew in understanding. In obsession. In devotion.

He learned that the world was ugly. The clan's territory was a sprawl of ruined buildings and makeshift structures, patrolled by armed groups and haunted by the desperate. Beggars crouched in alleys, their eyes hollow. Dealers moved through shadows, trading in substances that promised escape from a reality too harsh to bear. Cults had sprung up in the aftermath of the old world's death, each offering its own version of salvation, or oblivion.

He learned that most people were not worth his attention. They were noise. Interference. Obstacles between him and the only thing that mattered.

He learned that you were that thing.

He watched you work for hours, mesmerized by the precision of your movements as you calibrated bionic parts. You'd let him sit in the corner of your lab while you repaired bionic eyes and synthetic nerves, explaining the process if he asked, falling into comfortable silence if he didn't. Sometimes you'd read aloud from your collection of old books - classics from before the collapse, their pages fragile and yellowed. Sometimes you'd show him manga, explaining the stories, the characters, the art style.

"Is this from before?" he asked once, touching a page carefully.

"Yes. The world had different problems then." You smiled, a little sad. "They had time to draw stories. To imagine things. I like to think about that."

He filed away every word. Every preference. Every flicker of emotion across your face.

When you were happy, he was happy. When you were tired, he ached to carry the burden. When you were sad - rare, but it happened, usually late at night when you thought he wasn't watching - he wanted to destroy whatever had caused it.

He didn't understand these feelings at first. They were too large, too overwhelming. He'd been engineered for combat, for loyalty, for endurance. No one had prepared him for this.

By eight months, Kuan had become legend in the clan.

His combat record was flawless. He'd accompanied raiding parties into enemy territory and returned with minimal casualties on his side and absolute annihilation on theirs. He could go days without sustenance, weeks without rest. His endurance was inhuman, his strength terrifying, his loyalty to the clan unquestionable.

But everyone noticed where his true loyalty lay.

He was never far from the biomechanic's lab. When you worked, he watched. When you walked through the territory, he walked beside you, a wall of muscle and menace that made even the boldest traders step aside. If anyone looked at you too long, his hand would drift to the weapon at his hip. If anyone spoke to you in a tone he didn't like, his eyes would go flat and cold.

"You need to stop glaring at everyone," you told him one day, half-laughing. "People are starting to get nervous."

"Good," he said. "They should be nervous around you. They're not worthy of you."

"Kuan…"

"It's true." He looked at you with that intensity that made your breath catch. "You're the most brilliant person in this entire wasteland. You create life. You fix what's broken. You read books and understand them. You-" He stopped, struggling to contain the flood of words. "You're everything. And they're nothing. They should be nervous. They should be terrified. They should-"

"Okay, okay." You held up your hands, laughing. "I get it. You're very dedicated."

"Dedicated." He repeated the word, testing it. "Is that what this is?"

"What else would it be?"

He didn't have an answer. He only knew that when you laughed, his chest felt too full. When you touched him, his skin burned. When you left the lab, even for a moment, the world went gray and empty until you returned.

He started collecting things.

It began small - a scrap of paper you'd written notes on and discarded. A hair tie that had fallen from your wrist. A button from a coat. He kept them in a box under his cot, telling himself it was practical, that he was just keeping things that might be useful.

Then came the photographs.

The clan documented its members for identification purposes - harsh, utilitarian images taken against concrete walls. Kuan had acquired copies of yours through means he preferred not to examine too closely. He kept them in a folder, and at night, when he was alone in the quarters he never used, he would spread them out and look at your face for hours.

He traced your features with his fingertip. Memorized the curve of your lips. Committed to heart the way your hair fell across her forehead.

This is wrong, a part of him whispered. This is too much. This is-

But he couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. You was the only beautiful thing in an ugly world. The only warmth in endless cold. The only-

He caught himself, one night, with his hand on himself and your photograph in front of him.

The shame was immediate, overwhelming. He kept using his hand, knocking the photos to the floor, and pressed his forehead against the cold concrete wall. His breathing came in harsh gasps. His body throbbed with need he didn't understand, desire that felt like violation.

You created me. You trust me. And this is what I do?

But even as the shame burned through him, he couldn't make himself stop wanting. Couldn't make himself stop dreaming of your touch, your voice, your warmth. Couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to hold you, to be held by you, to belong to you.

He picked up the photos carefully, reverently, and put them back in their folder. Then he went to the lab and stood in the doorway, watching you work, and let your presence wash away the guilt.

Nine months. He'd been alive for nine months.

Tonight, he sat in your lab while you repaired an android's neural interface, muttering one of your cult prayers under your breath. He'd learned to recognize them - the rhythms, the cadence, the strange beauty of words that meant nothing to him but everything to you.

"Lady of the Final Door," you whispered, "guide the dead through shadow, hold them in your endless night…"

He watched your hands move, delicate and sure. Watched the way your lips formed the words. Watched the light catch in your hair, the slight furrow of concentration between your brows.

"Kuan." You didn't look up. "You're staring again."

"Yes," he said simply.

You glanced at him, amused. "Aren't you supposed to be resting? You have training in the morning."

"I don't need rest."

"You need something." You set down the tools and turned to face him fully. "What is it? What do you need?"

He opened his mouth to say nothing, to say I'm fine, to say whatever would make you stop looking at him with that gentle concern that made his chest ache. But what came out was:

"You."

You blinked. "What?"

"I need you." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "Every moment I'm not with you, I'm counting seconds until I can see you again. When you're sad, I want to destroy whatever made you sad. When you're happy, I'm happy. When you laugh-" His voice cracked. "When you laugh, I feel like I'm dying, but in a good way. I don't know what this is. I don't know what to call it. But it's all I am. All I want to be. Yours."

Silence. The longest silence of his existence.

Then you stood, crossed to him, and did something you'd never done before. You reached up and touched his face, your palm against his cheek, your fingers brushing his temple.

"You're very strange, Kuan," you said softly. "You know that?"

"Is strange bad?"

"No." You smiled, that real smile, and he felt his heart stop. "No, it's not bad. It's just… you."

You didn't say more. Didn't define what you two were, didn't label what he felt. But you didn't pull away either. And when you went back to your work, you let him stay, let him watch, let him exist in your orbit.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.