Attack On Titan: Goodbyes

Eren's POV

My name is Eren Yeager. I am 22 years old. When I was about nine my fate was decided, and four years ago, I was meant to be a mass murderer, the harbinger of destruction that would carve his name into history with blood and fire. But it all changed...

I chose her.

With nothing but her voice calling my name, I abandoned the world. I turned my back on everything—on destiny, on war, on vengeance—just to live the rest of my fleeting years with the one person I never imagined I'd fall in love with.

And now, I only have three months left.

My body is crumbling. Every day, I feel it slipping further from my grasp. My bones ache like they're turning to dust, and my back screams with every movement. Sometimes, in broad daylight, I lose consciousness without warning. Other times, I wake up gasping in the dead of night, drenched in cold sweat, my body trembling as if it's trying to reject existence itself.

The nosebleeds never stop. My skin is always burning or freezing. I've become a burden.

The symptoms were always there—faint traces over the past two years—but now they've sharpened into something undeniable. I can feel it. My time is running out.

The children are too young to understand, and I intend to keep it that way. They deserve happiness, not the weight of an inevitable goodbye. But Mikasa—she knew the moment my health began to decline. She saw through me instantly, and now she breaks, over and over again, with every passing day.

She cries. She sobs until her voice is raw, until her body shakes in my arms, until she's gasping for air like she's the one dying instead of me. And all I can do is whisper empty words—"It's alright… you'll move on… you'll be okay."

Lies.

Because I know the truth.

She won't move on. She won't be okay.

She's hopeless.

Even now, as I write this, she's curled up on my chest, fast asleep, yet still crying—muttering broken sentences in a voice that cracks my heart in ways I can't even describe.

But the worst part?

She's changed.

In just a few months, she went from the radiant, untouchable force that made my heart race—to a hollow, shattered woman, barely holding on. The brightness that once lit up my world has dulled into something lifeless, something that looks more like death than I do.

And the cruelest part of it all?

I can't do a damn thing to stop it.

And I hate it. I'm just do damn helpless. She's carrying my child—our child. Three months now, growing inside her, and yet… there's nothing I can do.

I won't be here to see them take their first breath. I won't be there when Mikasa cries out in pain, her fingers gripping the sheets, her body trembling. I won't be there to hold her hand, to press cool towels to her burning forehead, to whisper reassurances in her ear. I won't be there to kiss her damp cheeks, to tell her how proud I am of her, how much I love her after she's given birth.

I won't be there at all.

And that thought—it's destroying me.

I'm tired. I'm so goddamn tired.

If only, back then, I had kept my mouth shut. If only I hadn't stood in front of Mom and Dad, chest puffed up with childish arrogance, and declared that I was going to join the Scouts. If only I had let my foolish dreams die, just like everyone told me to. Maybe… just maybe, I could've lived. I could've grown old with her, watched our children grow up, laughed at their silly fights, wiped their tears, held them when the nightmares came.

But at the end of the day, I was just an arrogant, reckless bastard who chased the impossible.

And now, I have to pay the price.

My children… I want to see them. I want to see their little feet stumble as they learn to walk, hear their voices call me Papa. I want to ruffle their hair, scold them when they misbehave, comfort them when the world turns cruel. I want to watch them grow, watch them dream, watch them fall in love, watch them get married. I want to be there for them. I want to be there when they need me.

Even though the Curse of Ymir is an inevitable truth—an unbreakable chain that binds me to this fate—I still try.

I reach for the Paths, searching, clawing for anything that could rewrite my destiny. But it's futile. No matter how many times I call out, no matter how deep I dive into that endless plane of sand and light, there's nothing. Just silence. Just inevitability.

…

Today, I received a letter from Kiyomi Azumabito.

Just a month and a couple of days left for my end. I will die in her arms while she'll cry and sob. And just like that they'll bury me and she'll be gone with our kids.

But...

Dying is one thing. But knowing that I'll wake up in another world, stripped of all my memories of this one, is something else entirely. I'll forget them. I'll forget her.

And the thought of it is more terrifying than death itself. The weight of that truth will only hit me once I kiss Historia's hand—when the past comes flooding back, and I realize what I lost. But by then, it'll be too late to mourn.

Erika, Sae, Rin, Faya, and the little one growing inside Mikasa—they'll live long lives. And so will she.

But then what?

Where will she go when her time comes? Will there be another world where every version of Mikasa I've ever known is waiting for me?

No. That's not possible.

Because my punishment for slaughtering trillions—across every timeline, every world—can only lead to one place.

Hell.

Or maybe… this is my punishment.

An endless cycle of life and death.

And…

My pen stills, the ink bleeding into the same spot, forming a dark, spreading blotch on the page. My grip tightens slightly as I exhale, my thoughts heavy, when I feel movement in my lap.

She stirs.

Slowly, her eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, before settling on me. I watch as recognition dawns in them, as warmth pools within their depths. My hands instinctively move, sliding up her back, pulling her close.

"Ereh..."

Her voice is soft—barely a whisper—but it holds a weight I can't ignore. And then, as if the world itself shifts, her lips curl into a smile. Not just any smile—that smile. The one that reaches deep into my chest, wrapping around my heart like a vice. The one that makes everything else—pain, regret, time itself—fade into insignificance.

"Kiss me... And don't you dare pull back till dawn..."

A chuckle escapes me, low and breathless, as my hands slide down to her waist, fingers pressing into the familiar curves of her body. She doesn't wait. Her arms tighten around my neck, locking me in place, before she crashes against me—her lips searing, desperate, claiming.

There's no hesitation, no restraint.

Only warmth.