[ that attempt to push himself up? it failed miserably. he flops back down immediately. turns out having eleven days' worth of memories beamed into your head within the span of thirty seconds is yet another thing he's not built for.

was the grass always this soft? did it always smell like Angel Devil's perfume? ]

...

It's you.

[ there's a different kind of recognition in his eyes, somehow. one of faint longing. disappointment. understanding?

regret. ]