Thus, for many years… I strolled from world to world… and discovered stories as real and intense as I had imagined.

The pattern was always similar: I would wake up in a world, always near the protagonist, who was usually very young (a baby or a small child, depending on the plot), and I would follow her life until her death.
Each loss of those I had loved was like a stab in my heart. But I always woke up to a new story. Life went on for me… and would continue to do so, eternally.

Don’t think for a second that I spent all that time spying on the main character.
The life of a wandering spirit offered me many possibilities. I could just as easily wander through the world I found myself in.

In this form, I was able to fly. I had spent so many nights flying in my dreams when I was still human. The sensation was similar…
However, something was missing: the fresh air gently blowing against my face, the scent of the seasons timidly drifting to my nostrils… All of that was impossible for me here.

Despite everything, I savored every moment. The views were breathtaking. I could never have dreamed of such a beautiful spectacle.
I also had the opportunity to discover each world: its inhabitants, its politics, its language.

By the way, a quick aside about my appearance — it’s a bit complicated to explain.

I still felt like “me.” I could see my hands, even though they could no longer touch anything. However, I was constantly levitating. My legs? Gone.
In their place, a dense, almost liquid mist floated gently above the ground.

Above the mist, only the upper part of my body remained visible: from my lower abdomen to my head.
And speaking of my head… What face did I have now? Was it even still mine?
But whatever…

So, don’t have any prejudices against me — nor any perverse thoughts (I see you). I was subject to certain restrictions.
Indeed, it was impossible for me to enter certain places.
Rooms that revealed the intimacy of my characters were strictly forbidden to me, as if an invisible force prevented me from passing through the walls.

I remembered that time, in a dungeon, in a world populated by demons, where the heroine’s goal was to make the Demon Queen her wife…
After battling dozens of times to win her heart, she finally reached a moment that I think would go down in history.
After a passionate kiss, I felt a tension between the two, and just as they began to embrace… I was expelled from the room.
I could only guess what was happening.

Perhaps it was the way I worded my wish?

“To watch shōjo-ai stories”… Those scenes were far too explicit and, frankly, didn’t really interest me.
What I loved were the moments of romantic tension, revelations, and the characters slowly growing closer.
The distance. The slowness. The frustration of waiting.
The rest didn’t matter.

Or perhaps it was simply a form of modesty imposed by my role as an observer: a discreet but respectful boundary, so as not to intrude on the most intimate moments of those I was already following so closely.

And so the years passed, until I lost count… Hundreds of years, perhaps? More?

From a lingering kiss after a mecha battle, to a poignant kiss following a sacrifice during a revolution, or even two hands brushing against each other in the student council room of an all-girls high school…
How many stories had I witnessed?
I had lost count.

Sometimes, certain blurry images would come back to me. Memories, like fragments escaping from a dream.
Was my mind capable of retaining everything? Or did it have its own limits?

Little by little, I even forgot my life as a human being.