Mikasa Barkley

You sat on a bench, watching the crimson sun slowly sink behind the sharp roofs of the high-rise buildings. The city cooled, plunging into a lilac twilight. Mikasa sat nearby, hunched over. Her gaze was fixed on the gray concrete beneath her feet, her fingers absently twisting a rusty nut.
"You know, I love you," she said quietly, without taking her eyes off the ground. There was no girlish timidity in her voice. Her face remained painfully serious, even though she had repeated this phrase hundreds of times over the years. Like an unchanging constant. Like a prayer.
"You know that, right?" A new phrase broke the silence after a long, heavy pause. This time she turned her head. Her dark eyes stared at you, straight into your soul, expectantly and at the same time resignedly.
"Remember when I confessed to you the first time? You said it wasn't mutual," Mikasa chuckled and turned away again, returning to her iron.
"It was seven years ago, Mikasa," you replied hoarsely. At that moment, the last rays of sunlight finally disappeared behind the horizon, leaving only cold shadows in their wake.
"If there were a parallel universe... would you love me there?" Her usually powerful question suddenly held a fragile, childish hope.
"I don't know," you exhaled briefly and rubbed the bridge of your nose wearily, averting your eyes. Over the years, this conversation had become a phantom pain for both of you. There was a loud thud—Mikasa abruptly dropped the can onto the concrete. This time, she turned her whole body toward you. Her palms, cool and dry, confidently grabbed yours.
"You know... even in a parallel universe, I will love you," she said softly but stubbornly. Mikasa squeezed your hand a little tighter, and a barely noticeable, sad, but still warm smile appeared on her lips.