"I—"
As soon as he began to speak, Marseille froze. The face that always carried an air of composure now revealed a rare mix of panic and distress, caught entirely off guard. For a moment, he could barely breathe.
What is happiness? What is a good life—these were questions he ought to understand.
Yet he was unwilling to think deeply about "what his own happiness was, or what happiness for the 'Nightingale' should look like." This was not simply because he hadn't sorted out his feelings for the girl but also because he knew that whatever he envisioned as "his future" would likely resemble something he could already vaguely picture. And that image terrified him.
For this reason.
He avoided thinking about it. He avoided discussing it with others.
Because if he delved deeper, he would find himself reaching out, daring to breach the framework of a personality shaped by education and environment, attempting to cross that absolute, untouchable line of taboo—
