Hi Sans,
Has anyone ever tell you that you’re really cute? hehe
…
You’d probably don’t know who am I. Or rather, you’ve never really see me before.
But I see you often. I used to spend an amount of time every day just… seeing you. You were… you are lovely.
Anyway, I thought I should write to you, as a way to let you know. Because, as much as I wanted to, we probably could never meet each other. You could never see me like how I see you.
I have a younger sibling, too. She’s a really nice person. Almost all of the people I’ve been with are nice people. Good people, people with their eccentricness, their hopes and dreams, their own characters. They all had kind eyes.
We share that. Which is nice.
But of course, it’s always about the people. Or rather, the way they meant to me is a bit different from the way they mean to you, I think.
Back then, when you and your brother were so young, you were in a town full of strangers, in Snowdin. The people around you, they were kind. They helped, they made you both feel like home. Like you both grew up as a part of the community as you were. Like how they made themselves at home in the town of Snowdin, like how they’ve always been there for centuries.
But it wasn’t really feel like so, was it? No matter how welcomed they were. You couldn’t help but feeling like there were always a barrier between you and them.
You felt it too, right?
…
You see, the best time I’ve ever had was to run inward. Run to where I could see you. You and your brother playing in the snow. You and your brother went around and helped running errands. Mostly your brother, but you were always happy to jump in and help him. As I saw you, I would imagine I could join you too. You, me and your brother. Playing together in the snow. Running around help the neighborhood.
Later, when they came and they took everything from you. You felt so helpless, yet you did everything you could. Because you too, let him have that choice. Because you too, understood that choice as much as I do, don’t you? The choice to die.
…
When I was so little, my father, he didn’t stay home often, he was always out sailing. Sailing to the ocean, far and away. I don’t remember every time my father came home from abroad trips, but I remember he had kind eyes. Eyes that were small after numbers of time you squint really hard to avoid seawater into your eyes. Eyes that have wrinkle around due to nocturnal sleep schedule.
Eyes that were… that are kind, that looked at me with kindness. That are fulled of love, and pain at the same time.
My mother, she weren’t around often, too. She were always busy with works elsewhere. Important works. My mother is a short tempered woman. I got hit often. Sometimes with things that weren’t meant to be use on children. Sometimes with bigger things. She, of course, recognized and acknowledged all this later on.
She, too, has kind eyes. Eyes that looked kind when she was in control. When she didn’t want to punish me, or my sister.
All of them have kind eyes.
Not like mine. Not cruel like mine.
Not nice, not kind, not dignified.
I was in pain. I was alone. I couldn’t help but hurting.
Hurting others. Hurting myself.
And what use of something that is just pain and hurting? When it’s not nice, not kind, not destined for anything, but pain. Then maybe it’s better off dead. Gone. Nothing.
…
Your eyes, Sans. Your eyes are so different.
The quiet night in the sentry tower in Snowdin. When you laid there watching snow fell. Your eyes gazed out into a blank wall in the air of nothingness. Into where I stand.
They weren’t just like the skeleton sockets. They were deep, so deep. With lights that cast faintly on the edges. As if I was staring into a darkness. If it weren’t for the flame in your eyes.
As if you were always in a state of evaluation, and judgement. But also holding. Just close enough, so no one could really feel aloof. Just uncertain enough, so that people in your life know, you too need them, despite the acting otherwise.
Your eyes are like snow in a cave. Magical, foreign, but also familiar.
Just enough so that I want to know more.
The problem, I think, is that I’ve never had what you have despite living a similar life. Your brother, yours neighbors, your friends, your colleague.
You will always be the guy that feel like being outside despite standing inside.
And I will always be the person that watching from afar, and never really existed, never been in that life of yours.
Watching, and smiling at the sweet little lie.