Chapter 10
Mina woke first.
It was not abrupt—no jolt, no panic—just a gradual return to herself, like surfacing from deep water. Warmth lingered at her temple. Solid. Unmistakably human. Her breath caught when she realized where she was.
His shoulder.
For a heartbeat, she froze. As if stillness might rewind time and make this untrue. Her lashes fluttered, and embarrassment bloomed slow and traitorous, creeping up her spine. She drew back carefully, far too carefully, as though he were made of glass—or worse, perception.
How long? The question burned, unanswered and unforgiving.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, refusing to look at him just yet. Pride, wounded and flustered, demanded composure. If Tobirama Senju noticed, he had not said a word. Of course he hadn’t.
She shifted her attention elsewhere, grateful for the distraction.
The cave was different now.
Light—real light—spilled in through the mouth of the cavern in pale gold slants, catching on wet stone and half-dried rivulets. The oppressive chill had lifted. The rain, once a relentless drum, was gone. In its absence, the world sounded almost… peaceful.
Then voices.
Faint at first. Then clearer.
Ren’s, unmistakably—easy, loud, alive—mingling with the sharp, familiar cadence of the Uzumaki men. Mina’s brows lifted in surprise.
“They came through my side,” she murmured to herself.
Which meant—
Her head snapped slightly toward Tobirama.
She reached out and touched his arm, not shaking him, just enough pressure to call him back to the present. “Tobirama,” she said quietly. “Wake up.”
His eyes opened almost immediately, silver and alert despite the remnants of sleep. She wondered, briefly, if he ever truly rested.
“The rain has stopped,” she continued, a little breathless now. “There’s light. I can hear Ren and the Uzumakis—they’re outside. They must have entered through the other end of the cave.”
She paused, then added, softer, more aware of the moment slipping through her fingers, “It’s already sunset.”
For a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face—calculation, relief, perhaps even disappointment. Then the world returned, pressing in on them once more.
They had lost.
Ren made sure the news reached them with irrepressible cheer, clapping Tobirama on the shoulder with a grin far too satisfied to be subtle, the other men echoing his triumph with laughter and exaggerated retellings of how close it had been. There was pride there—unapologetic, bright—but no cruelty in it. Whatever edge the competition had sharpened through the night dulled the moment they stepped out of the cave and into open air.
The forest felt different in daylight. Friendlier. Forgiving.
The contestants gathered naturally, as if the night had stitched them together in quiet agreement. Someone laughed too loudly, another complained about the rain, someone else exaggerated their own cleverness. Mina found herself smiling without effort. The tension dissolved into easy chatter, boots crunching in unison as they walked back.
It had only ever been a game. Harmless. Supposed to be.
They saw Mikito before Mikito acknowledged them.
She stood apart, patient as a blade left on the table, eyes sharp with anticipation. Nearby, Hashirama had arrived with Miko, his voice warm and animated, hands moving as he spoke. Miko laughed at something he said, her expression openly fond. Mikito watched them from the side, unreadable, as though filing the moment away for later consideration.
When the result was formally announced—clear, decisive, unavoidable—Mina glanced at Tobirama.
Their eyes met.
They smiled.
“It seems we lost, Senju,” she said lightly, tilting her head just enough to make it a challenge. “And now Mikito will have a great deal of fun conveying it to us.”
As if summoned by name alone, Mikito’s lips curved, satisfaction undisguised.
“So it seems,” Tobirama replied.
His gaze lingered on Mina longer than strictly necessary. In the amber hush of sunset, light caught in her hair, softened the angles of her face, turned her quiet composure into something almost luminous.
There was no strategy in the thought. No assessment. No need for justification.
For once, Tobirama Senju did not calculate.
He simply knew.
Dinner followed as though it had always been inevitable.
Mina noticed—without meaning to—that wherever she turned, Tobirama was there. Not beside her, not deliberately near, but present in the same quiet radius, like a thought one keeps returning to despite oneself. It was not intention that drew them together, but something subtler, something that refused to be named. A familiarity that did not belong to Senju or Uchiha, but to Tobirama and Mina alone.
The night bloomed with laughter.
Hashirama filled the space effortlessly, warmth radiating from him as naturally as breath. Miko’s presence only deepened it—her smiles, her quiet glances, the way she anchored him without ever diminishing his light. Together, they turned the clearing into something almost sacred.
And yet— Madara was not there.
Mina noticed it with a sudden, cold clarity.
She searched instinctively, eyes scanning faces, shadows, the edges of firelight. Nothing. For a fleeting moment she considered asking Hashirama, but he was surrounded, engaged, happy in a way that felt inappropriate to interrupt. Silence had always been her brother’s language—but leaving without her? Leaving without a word?
That was not silence. That was absence.
And it unsettled her.
They had come together—to represent the Uchiha. Now she sat alone among Senju and Uzumaki, surrounded by voices that were not hers, laughter that did not quite reach her.
The bride’s side served dinner, moving with ceremonial grace. Mina was pulled back into the moment when Ren appeared, placing sweets before her with exaggerated generosity.
“Extra,” he said cheerfully, winking. “For consolation.”
She laughed despite herself, returning the grin, though it felt practiced. Tobirama, meanwhile, was occupied with the men of his clan—low voices, deliberate tones, plans already unfolding for the journey to Konoha tomorrow. Preparations. Futures being decided without her participation.
There was nothing for Mina to do but sit. Watch. Eat.
And feel oddly out of place.
Then came the demand.
The Uzumaki, victorious and delighted, called for recompense. Laughter rippled through the gathering—it was playful, expected, almost ritualistic. Mikito turned toward Hashirama, eyes gleaming with mischief sharpened by intelligence.
“We won,” she said lightly. “Surely the Senju will not deny us tradition.”
Hashirama laughed, open and indulgent. “Name it, Mikito. Though I warn you—Uzumaki already possess more than most villages.”
Cheers followed. Tobirama watched from where he sat, expression neutral, though a faint tension threaded his posture. He trusted his brother—but only to a point.
Mikito tilted her head, thoughtful. Then her gaze landed—precisely, unmistakably—on Tobirama.
“I would like his companionship.”
The words were light. Almost careless.
The reaction was not.
From the outside, it might have sounded like harmless jesting, another ceremonial tease. But Mina felt it land like a misstep on fragile ground. Her smile faltered before she could stop it.
Why did it feel wrong?
She searched herself with sudden discomfort. Tobirama Senju was admired—desired—by many. Had she not spent years despising him as an idea, as a name, as a symbol? Then why did the request feel intrusive, almost improper?
The sweetness on her tongue turned to ash.
Tobirama answered calmly, voice even. “Companionship,” he said, “is not demanded. It is earned.”
Laughter followed, approving and amused, but it was clear to anyone paying attention—he had no intention of offering it.
Mikito smiled, unoffended. If anything, intrigued.
“Then,” she replied smoothly, “allow me the chance to earn it.”
Earn it? Mina scoffed inwardly.
The persistence grated on her nerves in a way she did not care to examine too closely. Tobirama had been perfectly clear—measured, composed, unmistakable—and yet Mikito pressed on, smiling as though restraint were an invitation rather than a boundary. Mina lifted her cup, taking a slow sip of wine, hoping it would dull the irritation pooling behind her temples.
It did not.
The laughter around them blurred into noise. Sweets lost their taste. Words passed her without leaving meaning behind. All she could think of was how tired she suddenly felt—bone-deep, soul-weary.
She wanted sleep. She wanted home. She wanted her brother, present and answerable.
And since none of those things were forthcoming, she rose.
There was no obligation holding her there. No role left to play. With quiet efficiency, she excused herself, choosing retreat over endurance.
“Going to retire so soon?” Ren’s voice followed her, light and amused.
She turned, schooling her expression into polite composure. “I’m tired,” she said simply. “It’s been a long day. And tomorrow we leave for Konoha—we’ll need to rise early.”
Ren grinned, unbothered. “Such discipline on the last night of a wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “You wound me.”
She smiled faintly, indulgent. He continued, leaning closer, conspiratorial.
“The night is still young. And so are we,” he added. “You speak like an old soul already ready for bed.”
Mina arched a brow, the edge of her irritation finally finding a playful outlet. “Then enlighten me,” she said lightly. “What should I be doing instead?”
“Well,” he said, leaning slightly closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a confidence, “have you ever heard of the Ember Vigil tradition of the Uzumaki?”
“Yes,” Mina replied after a moment. “Only vaguely. People are chosen to tend the fire through the night. No jutsu. No interference. Just… presence. A sacred bond, if the stories are to be believed.”
Ren’s expression brightened. “That is exactly it. And I was wondering,” he continued, carefully casual, “whether you would do me the honour of becoming my Vigil partner.”
She did not answer immediately.
“I do not think that would be appropriate,” she said at last, choosing her words with care. She did not look at him as she spoke. “If the tradition holds even a fragment of truth, then it is not something to be treated lightly. And I do not believe I am the person you should choose.”
Ren frowned, just slightly. “Those chosen as Vigil partners are bound in a sacred way,” he said, more serious now. “Not loudly, not dramatically—but meaningfully. They are meant to be soulmates, in the way the Uzumaki understand the word.”
She exhaled. “And that is precisely why I must refuse. Standing beside a fire through the night does not appeal to me, and I would rather not pretend otherwise.”
“You wound me,” Ren said lightly—but there was something beneath the playfulness, something she heard and immediately regretted.
Before she could respond, Mikito’s voice carried across the gathering, announcing the Ember Vigil to the assembled guests. Mina barely registered the words at first; it sounded like just another ceremonial declaration, another moment of Uzumaki tradition unfurling around her without her consent.
She only half-listened as Mikito explained the ritual—how threads would be placed, how following a thread would lead one to their Vigil partner, how the bond was not chosen but found.
Mina’s gaze drifted, unfocused. It seemed obvious to her that Mikito intended Tobirama to be chosen. Everything about the evening had been leading there. The thought pressed against her chest, unwelcome and exhausting.
“I truly am not the one you should choose,” she said quietly to Ren. “I hope you understand.”
He did.
She could see it in the way his shoulders eased, in the faint resignation in his smile. She felt a pang of guilt, but not enough to reconsider. She did not want to be his soulmate. Sacred or otherwise.
So she turned away, intent on leaving.
That was when she noticed the thread.
It lay near her foot, catching the light—red and gold woven together, delicate and unmistakably intentional. She paused, frowned, then bent to pick it up, curiosity overriding her fatigue.
The silk was warm.
She turned it over between her fingers—and then felt it pull.
Not sharply. Not violently. Just enough.
Her head lifted.
Tobirama Senju stood several paces away, the other end of the thread wound once around his fingers. For a moment, neither of them moved. Surprise registered openly on his face, mirrored in her own. This was not deliberate. It could not be. There had to be a mistake.
She sensed Mikito at her side before she spoke.
“That is not the thread meant for you,” Mikito said, her voice controlled but edged with irritation. “You were supposed to pick another. You have, as usual, interfered where you should not have.”
The words stung, sharp and familiar.
Before Mina could respond, Miko stepped forward, her presence calm, steady, unmistakably authoritative.
“There is no other thread to pick,” Miko said gently. “Once the seeker has taken hold, the bond cannot be denied.”
Mina opened her mouth. Closed it. “I did not mean to—”
“It does not matter,” Miko continued. “The Ember Vigil is not about intention. It is about truth. This bond is sacred. It binds not just the night, but the lives it touches.”
She looked at Mina then, her expression warm, almost knowing. “Accept it. Sometimes fate does not ask permission.”
Miko smiled—at Mina, then at Tobirama.
Mikito turned away, visibly frustrated, her composure cracking just enough to reveal anger beneath.
The thread pulsed faintly between Mina and Tobirama, glowing as though acknowledging something neither had dared to name.
For a moment, the world felt hushed.
Tobirama could not believe fate could be so cruel—so precisely cruel that it bordered on intention. As though the world itself had tilted its head, observed him carefully, and decided to be amused.
Mina.
If the traditions were to be believed, she was his soulmate. An Uchiha. Madara’s sister.
The thread pulsed faintly in his hand, warm, almost alive, as though it recognized her presence more keenly than he ever had the right to. He looked at her then—truly looked at her—and found her unmistakably flustered, her composure fractured in small, human ways she never allowed the world to see. It unsettled him far more than he was willing to admit.
She stepped closer.
With every step she took toward him, something in Tobirama’s chest tightened, not with fear, but with a reluctant, dangerous belief. The more he saw her hesitation, the way she avoided his gaze as though afraid of what it might confirm, the more this began to feel less like coincidence and more like something ancient remembering itself.
Was he truly meant to have a soulmate after everything?
The question surfaced unbidden, sharp and unwelcome. He had buried far kinder hopes beneath colder logic. He had made peace with the idea that some men were built to protect futures they would never personally inhabit. And yet here she stood, bound to him by a tradition older than either of their clans’ hatred.
Did he deserve her—after everything he had done? After every choice made with bloodied hands and unflinching resolve?
For once, his heart betrayed him. It whispered not of duty, not of restraint, but of selfishness. Just once. Just this once.
He forced himself to breathe evenly, to steady the thoughts threatening to spiral. This was chance, he told himself. Ceremony. Ritual dressed up as destiny. There was no reason to give it meaning, no reason to let it touch him this deeply.
And yet—
Why did it feel so real?
He should hate her. He knew that. Hatred would have been simpler, cleaner, easier to justify. But the longer he looked at her—at the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled as though bracing herself—the harder it became to summon anything resembling resentment.
She refused to meet his eyes.
That, more than anything, undid him.
He did not need her to accept the bond aloud. He did not need promises or declarations. All he wanted—just once—was for her to look at him. To meet his gaze and say, in that steady voice of hers, that this was not fate’s cruelty, not a mockery of old wounds, but something true. Something she believed in.
Without fully realizing it, Tobirama took a step forward.
The distance between them narrowed, the thread glowing faintly brighter, as though approving of his weakness. He stopped himself before he could close it entirely, control snapping back into place like a drawn blade.
Still, he waited. For her, he would as long as it takes.
Soon, everyone was given a place of their own—small clearings marked by stone rings where embers already glowed faintly. Each pair was entrusted with a fire. They would have to tend it through the night: feed it, shelter it from the wind, steady it when it wavered. The flame was meant to signify their bond—not through spectacle, but through patience.
Mina and Tobirama guarded theirs without discussion.
It surprised her how naturally they worked together. There was no confusion, no hesitation. When the fire dipped, one of them moved before the other could speak. When the wind shifted, they adjusted in tandem. It felt instinctive, as though they had done this before in another life.
Whenever their eyes met, Mina looked away first.
What else was she supposed to do?
She was an Uchiha. He was a Senju. Their worlds had been shaped to collide, not converge. And yet—his presence was steady in a way that felt dangerously familiar. Warm, but not overwhelming. Solid. Grounding.
Her brother would never agree. And truthfully, she did not even know where Tobirama stood.
Did he accept this? Did he resent it? Did he see her as a mistake fate had made?
She wanted to ask him. She wanted to know what this meant—what she meant. Whether she stood beside him by chance… or if she stood at all.
Still, they moved with precision, guarding the ember between them. The fire crackled softly, alive, patient—bearing witness to a bond neither of them had chosen, yet neither had rejected.
Eventually, they sat.
Silence settled between them, not awkward but heavy. Tobirama felt it immediately. He was used to silence—used to letting it stretch, to allowing it to dominate rooms. But this was different. This silence wanted to be broken.
Mina was usually the one who spoke when quiet grew too loud.
Perhaps she was still in shock. Perhaps she did not want this. Perhaps she despised him for everything he represented.
He had not been transparent either. He had not offered her clarity. He had not offered her anything at all.
“I haven’t seen my brother in a while,” Mina said at last, her voice soft but edged with concern. She looked at him fully as she spoke, not away. “Did he leave for Konoha? Do you have any idea?”
Relief flickered through Tobirama—quiet, fleeting. He had not realized how much he needed her to speak until she did.
“Yes,” he replied evenly. “He was sent ahead to make preparations before Hashirama and Miko arrive. Tomorrow night, there will be another celebration. This time involving the council and the people of Konoha.”
She nodded slowly, absorbing the information.
“It will be Hashirama’s wedding as Hokage,” he added.
That gave her pause.
“I didn’t know that,” she admitted, her tone thoughtful rather than troubled.
Tobirama noticed it then—how unaware she had been. How much she had missed while standing so close to the center of it all.
“Hashirama-kun’s wedding was… beautiful,” Mina said after a moment, her gaze drifting back to the fire. “The Uzumaki truly know how to celebrate. There is something generous about the way they gather people together.”
“There is,” Tobirama agreed. “Celebration and tradition are deeply woven into their culture. They take pride in it—the dances, the games, the music…” His voice slowed. “…and this.”
She turned to him.
“This tradition,” he continued quietly, “of sacred bonds.”
Mina nodded, her breath catching almost imperceptibly as he named it so plainly.
“Do you believe in it, Tobirama?” she asked.
She did not look away when she said his name. It was the first time she had spoken it like that.
He faltered.
For someone who rarely lacked words, he found none waiting for him now. How could she ask so directly, when she already unsettled him so completely? How could someone so perceptive not see the effect she had on him?
“I…” He paused, choosing honesty over precision. “I do not oppose it, Mina.”
He said her name as well—just once—but it was enough.
His gaze softened, stripped of calculation, of guard.
Mina’s hand flew to her mouth in quiet surprise. Warmth bloomed across her cheeks, mirroring the faint color rising on his own.
The fire crackled between them, steady and alive.
And for the first time that night, neither of them looked away.
Then for the night, they worked together to ensure their bond remained steady. They wroked together not stopping, like the fire signified something sacred, something they both wanted to preserve.
heir ember remained.
It was not large. It did not demand attention. It burned steadily, a low, patient flame—alive because it was tended, not because it was dramatic.
Mina fed it first.
She moved with care, placing a thin stick just so, angling it to allow air without letting the flame leap too high. Tobirama watched, noting the precision of her hands. She did not treat the fire as something to dominate, but as something to be understood.
“It will suffocate if we stack too much at once,” she said quietly, more observation than instruction. “It needs space as much as fuel.”
He nodded, adjusting the stones subtly to shield it from the breeze. “Too much protection can be as dangerous as neglect.”
She glanced at him then—not surprised, but thoughtful.
They did not speak much after that.
They did not need to.
When the wind shifted, Tobirama moved first, his cloak angled just enough to block the draft. When the flame dipped low, Mina was already reaching for another piece of kindling. At one point, the ember flared suddenly, licking too close to the edge of the stone ring, and both of them reacted at once—his hand steadying the perimeter, hers easing the fuel back.
Their fingers brushed. Thier body soul betrayed thier faces of neutrality. They kept working to keep the fire going on.
Hours passed like this. Measured. Intentional.
Fatigue crept in quietly. It showed in the slight heaviness of Mina’s movements, in the way Tobirama sat closer to the fire than strictly necessary. The night grew colder, and the ground beneath them less forgiving.
At some point, Mina’s shoulders slumped.
She did not complain. She simply leaned back against the stone, eyes closing for a heartbeat too long.
Tobirama noticed.
“Rest for a moment,” he said, low and even. “I’ll keep watch.”
She opened her eyes again, immediately. “We were told not to leave the fire unattended.”
“I am not leaving it,” he replied. “And neither are you. Close your eyes if you must. I will wake you if it needs you.”
She studied him, as though weighing whether to argue. Then, slowly, she exhaled.
“Very well,” she said. “But only briefly.”
She did not move away.
He watched the flame, adjusting it when needed, shielding it with his body when the wind grew sharp. He felt the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones, but he did not let it claim him. This fire mattered.
Not because tradition demanded it.
Because she had chosen to stay.
At one point, the ember dimmed dangerously low. The night air had grown damp, and the fuel had burned faster than expected. Tobirama reached for more kindling—but paused.
Mina was already moving.
Her eyes were barely open, but her hands were sure. She placed the wood, angled it, waited. The flame caught again, small but alive.
“Still here,” she murmured, more to the fire than to him.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You are.”
She smiled faintly, eyes closed again.
They took turns like that—without planning, without asking. When one tired, the other carried the watch. When the flame wavered, they steadied it together. No resentment. No hesitation.
And when her turn to rest finally came, she did not hesitate either.
Mina settled beside him, not stiff, not uncertain. There was no awkward pause, no self-conscious apology in her posture. She lay down as though the space had always been hers, as though the night itself had arranged him there for this exact purpose. As if she belonged with him—and nothing about it was wrong.
Most importantly… he allowed it.
Did more than allow it. He adjusted instinctively, shifting just enough to support her weight, his presence steady and unyielding like stone warmed by fire. Sleep claimed her almost immediately.
That startled him.
She slept easily. Deeply. Not the shallow, guarded rest of someone always listening for danger. Her breath evened out, her body softened, the constant tension she carried finally loosening.
It struck him then—quietly, devastatingly—that Mina slept more naturally when he was near.
Around him, she did not need to think. Did not need to measure herself. Did not need to be anything.
And it was because of him.
He did not know when their posture changed.
Only that at some point, her head rested against his chest, fitting there with infuriating ease, and his arm had come around her—steady, protective, unthinking. Not possession. Not restraint. Just there. As if his body knew its purpose before his mind did.
When she woke, there was no embarrassment.
Only surprise.
Her hand rested against his chest, fingers splayed lightly over his heartbeat. She opened her eyes slowly, blinked once, and looked up at him.
He looked… tired.
Bone-deep tired. The kind that no amount of discipline could fully hide. The firelight carved shadows beneath his eyes, softened the sharp planes of his face just enough to make the exhaustion visible.
Guilt bloomed in her chest.
He noticed her awareness instantly—of course he did—but instead of tensing, he relaxed.
“You are awake,” he said simply, as if this—this closeness, this moment—was entirely fine.
She didn’t move away.
“You did not wake me,” she said quietly. Not accusing. Just noticing. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
“You were tired,” he replied. Calm. Certain. “You needed it.”
His tone held no reproach.
She studied him for a moment, then her brows knit faintly. “You need to sleep now. You look tired as well.”
The concern in her voice—unguarded, instinctive—was enough.
Tobirama smiled.
It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t sardonic. It surprised even him.
He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like she was something rare. Something worth the long night.
“I have slept enough,” she insisted softly.
He adjusted his arm—not possessive, never that—but grounding, silently asking her to stay exactly where she was.
“You have barely slept,” he countered.
Her fingers moved then, finding his hand, slipping between his, interlacing without ceremony.
The world narrowed.
For Tobirama, the moment felt unreal in a way battles never had. Strategy dissolved. Long-laid plans unraveled. Futures he had once envisioned without her suddenly… could not exist.
There was no version of tomorrow that did not include this woman.
“I will guard it now,” Mina said, voice firm, almost scolding. “You must rest, Tobirama.”
The way she said his name—steady, concerned, unafraid—amused him more than it should have.
“You guarded it even while you slept,” he said quietly. “Every time the wind shifted, you leaned closer without waking. As if you knew.”
She glanced down at herself, then back at him, genuinely puzzled. “I don’t remember that.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”
Something flickered in her eyes then.
Fear.
Not of him. Never of him.
Of tomorrow. Of what daylight would demand. Of whether this—whatever this was—could exist outside the safety of the dark.
Her thoughts drifted, spiraling. Tobirama felt it the way one feels a change in air pressure before a storm. For once, he knew exactly what haunted her.
So he anchored her.
“Tell me,” he said softly, deliberately. “Something about your life in a foreign land. Your people. Your friends. Anything. It will keep me awake.”
It was not a command.
It was a request.
A plea to stay here. With him. Now.
She hesitated only a second before she began to speak.
She told him about her college years—late nights, impossible expectations. About her work, the kind that left her fulfilled and exhausted in equal measure. About her best friend. About Elise. About Duke Damon. About small charitable efforts she cared for deeply, carefully skirting the truths that could endanger them both.
She spoke of her favorite sweets, nobles she despised, professors who had shaped her mind and others who had nearly broken it.
Tobirama did not interrupt once.
He listened the way warriors listen before battle—intently, reverently. Memorizing her world. Mapping it. Understanding her not as an idea, but as a living, breathing reality.
He held her close, arm firm around her, as if the night itself demanded it.
And for once—just once—his mind held no strategies, no contingencies, no looming wars.
Only awe.
Awe at the woman in his arms. Awe at the quiet miracle of her trust. Awe at the ember still burning
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That's all. The story hasn't ended. It isn't as simple as that. But now I have other things to focus on, my life specifically. So I will take a break and finish the pending tasks. I wish you luck and life. May you get the life you want, not the one chosen for you. <3