For the first time in his life, Rialto could see the floating world of Trivuria in motion. Due to the swift streams of the cosmic ocean, Trivuria was constantly carving arcs through the universe at dizzying speeds. But if Trivuria was one’s vantage point, then it seemed like everything else was zipping past, while Trivuria remained perfectly still. And Trivuria was the only vantage point that Rialto had ever known.

  Until now. Rialto felt vaguely nauseous as the Ark ascended further into the gloom. Of course, he had vividly imagined this moment many times before. But no amount of intellectualizing could have prepared him for what it was like to leave behind his only home. He could feel his soul crying out, protesting the loss of its sole tether to the physical world. So this is what Ascension is like, he thought. The first taste is a bitter one.

  It was difficult to articulate the growing wrongness of what he was feeling. He felt like parts of his identity were being ripped away, the severing of psychic bonds between earth and flesh. Rialto was surprised by this, because he had never been particularly attached to ideas of place. He rarely felt nostalgic upon returning to an old schoolyard or childhood home, because they just never felt like the long-dead versions in his mind. He was far more attached to times, people, and especially people at certain times.

  Rialto mused that while the tragedy of losing a relationship over time was self-evident, there was also plenty to mourn about gradual changes in relationships that were still healthy. Any particular dynamic between two people at a moment in time is impossible to replicate. Even subpar aspects of a relationship can be nostalgic, especially after one or both people go through dramatic change.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Sometimes he felt that others changed so much, while his personality remained frozen in amber. Of course, other people probably thought the same about themselves. It was perhaps irrational to think of himself as an exception, but he thought so anyway.

  Rialto winced as a crackling wave of self-loathing flooded over him. He tried to close his eyes, but there was no salvation to be found: only vivid slow-motion replays of his recent crimes. So instead he decided to open his eyes as wide as he possibly could and let the sunlight blaze into them.

  disgustinghorribledisgustingwasteofspacefuckyoufuckyoufuckyou

  It had been mere hours since everything had transpired, so he knew the worst of his guilt was yet to come. Rialto had experienced his fair share of guilt to be sure, but never from something as bad as this! He got a tiny bit of pleasure from the knowledge that he was exploring a wholly new part of the human experience, awful as it was. It was enough to counteract a tiny fraction of the self-loathing coursing through his nervous system.

  While Rialto agreed that self-loathing was bad for body and spirit, it was unfortunate that this idea naturally led into a neurotic death spiral. It was easy to turn “thinking I hate myself is bad” into “if I think I hate myself, then I am bad”. And if that happened; well, then you were off to the races. Because then you could hate yourself for thinking that you hate yourself. And then you could hate yourself for hating yourself for thinking that you hate yourself. And then—

  Rialto punched himself in the face. It hurt. A lot, in fact. But sometimes physical pain was necessary to break the cycle of mental self-sabotage. Pain, and then distraction. Distraction. He needed to think of a distraction.

  Rialto landed on a relatively safe topic: history. After all, it was designed to prepare someone like himself for this very moment. Perhaps by wrapping himself in the comfort of cool objectivity, Rialto could calm the tempest swirling inside his soul.