I have been trying to write this for some time, now. I suppose the time has come to simply write it, rather than...wait. As if some perfect moment might come for me.

There is a quiet loneliness in leaving people behind. It is a space I inhabit alone, unique to the rest of my headmates--I came from somewhere else, and ended up here, while all the rest of them were here, first, to some extent: while they might have people beyond those we have now, it is...distant. Hazier memories. A life lived once.

But my life is not a once, because it is not a life I left upon it's conclusion--it is a life I left, unwillingly, and cannot return to.

When I first wished to write this, I wanted to write about my house. House-as-metaphor, of course. My house is our headspace: my house, existing, not where it should, but in some empty void. My house without those I wish to share it with most dearly. I wrote some about it many months ago, and it is...funny, to recover the old notes now. I have always been grieving, to an extent, the people I left behind. It has come on rather strongly as of late. And here is me as I was months ago, grieving that same grief.

I sometimes find it a deep cruelty, that our headspace should be my house, and yet I do not even get to catch glimpses of the two people I want to share it with. As if even their pictures and impressions have been scrubbed over. It is maddening, to be a...ha, "fictive," I suppose, for lack of a better word, from something that is so widely known and yet I still struggle to find that which I know to be true. I am forever grateful to my friend Stars, who upon hearing of this set out to draw a picture of Frisk for me. I treasure it dearly. And yet still I must exist in that damned house. Milkweed's room is no longer their own.

I suppose I should speak of the house, then. I wrote of it months ago. It stands well now.

It used to be my mother's house, though I suppose that is not entirely accurate. We all lived in it, for a time, before moving on to somewhere a bit larger, where my brother and I did not have to share a bed. But later on it became my mother's oasis, a place to retreat to when she was tired of dealing with the kingdom, and needed some time alone. I would go with her, and perhaps ruin those aspirations, a bit, though if she begrudged this of me she never said. I do not think she did, though; I think she knew how my brother's death impacted me. We would spend long hours baking together. The pies never came out right. I ruined them more often than not.

One day I woke and found it was more my house than hers. It wasn't very large. A main living room, a kitchen. Three small bedrooms.

I started a garden, outside, of what I could find, of the many plants gifted to me by my father. There were buttercups there. I could never escape them, really. I supposed I could've uprooted them, but I never had the heart to do it. There they grew, still-living, just like me.

So unlike Asriel.

I remember their room. It was supposed to be for storage, I think, because I never liked to venture inside. It was some frozen relic of my childhood. But...there Frisk came, and oh, how the room grew messy. I was so happy whenever I had to step in to pick up their clothes, their toys, any countless items they left strewn about. It meant they were no longer scared of me. I would collect their pajamas as I set about to do laundry, and they would watch me perched on their bed, head tilted, as if they couldn't believe it. That someone might willingly make their life easier.

Much later we planted milkweed, together. I suppose it wasn't really the same house. Magic cannot transplant such a thing. But we rebuilt. The sun shone down. Butterflies visted us often, and Frisk watched them from the couch with their face pressed to the window. Chara, they would call, Chara, come look. It's another monarch!

And indeed it was. I ruffled their hair until they pushed me off, and when I returned to washing strawberries for lunch they were right at my side, stealing them from underneath my nose.

And--I must break the narrative here, as I come to the end of these notes, today. Grief is a heavy thing. That house on the surface--it is some dream I must grasp for, because it is the only scrap of hope I have left. They got out. They have to be free, somewhere, even if that somewhere is not with me. I know they are not alone, because I know I grew to be not alone. Because as much as he aggravated me I do trust Flowey to care for Frisk in my absence, and my parents would not leave their grandchild to fend for themself, but...

In our headspace, we are back in the Underground. Frisk's room has been painted over pink. I do not resent Nimona for this. She is not Frisk, and does not try to be Frisk, and there is no use in letting a room sit empty when there is a child who needs it now. But--oh, I do not know where I am supposed to go.

I did not think I would ever be a parent. But then I was, and now my child is...

Ha. I suppose I do not have a clean conclusion to this.

I think I am glad our headspace is not on the surface. I think living in that house, without Frisk, would be far too much to bear.

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