[ Ah, he knows her well. Misato knows it too, quirking a little smile the moment he says the word easy, doesn't he play her like a fiddle? It's true. Surviving is the prerequisite to living but it is paltry by comparison, like the difference between one puny candle and the sun. She can light her way, keep on walking, but it's not the same. She reaches over to hold his hand, a form of reassurance for him or for herself, her smile turning wistful. ]

When I turned 17, I decided I would talk again and be alright. [ She says decide as she takes upon her shoulders the entire responsibility of choosing between well and sick, allowing herself no excuses. But she doesn't tell him, I saw the end of the world and it left me mute for three years because surely what she does is more important than what was done to her. ] And I did it, you know, I did all the stupid things college kids do and I was happy. I've come a really long way, and I'm still going. Three steps forward, two steps back.

[ Because trauma recurs in cycles of hollow joy and vicious self-hatred and at no point in her life will she ever be able to say I'm healed, still it doesn't mean she would stop trying. She sighs as she releases her knees to stretch her legs long in front of her, hands by her sides like pillars, a sort of unraveling. ]

How did you find your way back?