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Something is off. Stanley can't quite put his finger on it, but something about him feels weird, strange, unusual. He feels … exhausted?
He really isn't supposed to feel like this, the Parable has always made sure of that. He can't get sick, tired – though he can sleep if he wants to, he simply doesn't feel the need – hungry, thirsty, or anything that could plug him away from the story. Well, there is one big exception: feelings.
For some reason he can feel. A lot. From anger, to sadness; to love, even. He can feel love. God knows he felt the latter one for a certain voice since quite some time. He wasn't quite sure since when, after all, telling time in the Parable is quite difficult.
Anyway, the feeling he was feeling right now was very unfamiliar. Not "unfamiliar" in the sense of him never feeling like this before, but unfamiliar in the way of this lasting several runs now. But, like mentioned before, he cannot be sick. At least not in the normal human way.
He has been doing every possible ending (where he doesn't die in an excruciating way), but this – whatever it may be – stayed.
Since several resets something has been bothering him. Something that he probably shouldn't feel (bothered by). Something is very clearly wrong. Perhaps a computer virus got to him?
Right now he feels exhausted. Or tired. Honestly, what even is the difference? He doesn't think he would ever be able to tell the difference. That said, he's pretty sure he never was supposed to experience the difference between friendship and love either…
Alright, let's settle on exhausted. What even is the definition of exhaustion? Something in his mind is saying that it can also be mental. Where does that knowledge even come from? He'd ask the Narrator to be sure, but it sounds logical enough.
Mental exhaustion would explain why he was feeling it, as it likely doesn't count in all the things the Parable makes him "immune to", for the lack of a better word. Should he tell the Narrator about it? He'd probably only start worrying about the game; that's probably not a good idea.
Stanley chooses to just hope it goes away.
It didn't go away. It had only gotten worse. It isn't "just" exhaustion anymore, there is something else now too.
He has been doing every possible ending (where he doesn't die in an excruciating way), in hopes of everything vanishing. Nothing helped, obviously.
The amount of exhaustion feels impossible to be real, he doesn't want to do anything anymore, anything was a chore. Sitting, getting up, being awake, walking. Anything.
It also feels like there is something. Quite literally something that has been eating at him, at his very soul, if he even has one. He isn't really sure if he had a soul, it's probably just code and pixels anyway, which sounds terribly depressing.
He should probably ask the Narrator about this. But maybe, just maybe, if he does the Freedom Ending a few times he'll feel better? Or perhaps a few Bucket Endings? That'll surely cure him.
None of the endings mentioned above cured anything. And, as more resets passed, the unavoidable truth dawned upon Stanley: Nothing that he does will cure this; in fact the longer he waits this out, the worse it'll get.
He can't move anymore. Not only had the exhaustion reached a level that he didn't even know would be possible, he also feels completely done with everything.
It's hard to put into words, he just feels too much. Sadness, a huge amount of melancholy, and a nostalgia for things that never existed before.
He feels incomplete. Like everything that made him him, had been stolen from him, by no one in particular. Those thoughts were so terribly loud. And there was an urge. An urge to die.
"Stanley! My goodness, I've been trying to get to you since the last fifteen resets!" The Narrator sounded genuinely distressed. Stanley placed his head on the table. It was the first motion he actually felt like he did, and decided to do himself – or half. His head felt heavy on his shoulders.
"Stanley?" The Narrator sounds genuinely distressed, and it stings.
"Exhausted", Stanley thought. It was the only thing he could muster up to think directly at the Narrator. "'Exhausted'? Stanley, you aren't supposed to feel exhausted." The Narrator got audibly nervous. Stanley swallowed. This is exactly what he didn't want.
But pretending like everything was okay, like he isn't currently feeling like he lost everything that makes him him… Even that is too exhausting now. So he gives in at last. It's hard to muster up the mental strength, but he tries to.
"I haven't been feeling well. At all actually. I'm just so tired – mentally, not physically – and i feel like i lost myself? Not that i really had an identity in the first place, I've always been a placeholder. But now especially something inside me just… I don't know, broke? I'm not sure why now, of all times. It sounds stupid, but it's serious, i swear. I've been avoiding the endings where i die painfully, I always avoided them. But right now I avoided them because I wanted them. I want to feel the painful death over and over again. And i think something is wrong with me for wanting that."
Stanley took a deep breath. Funny enough it did help letting that all out. Not much, he still felt awful, but it helped at least little.
The air shifted, and suddenly there are hands on his shoulders. The Narrator has changed into his human form. Stanley turns his head towards him, with much effort. Worry traces every feature on the Narrator's face. and Stanley feels his stomach churn. He wants to reach out, but his bones feel so heavy.
"Can't get up." he says. The Narrator sighs. "Oh, what am I going to do with you. Nothing is wrong with the game, I already checked every possible place. He looks around for a second, seemingly contemplating his next action(s). Stanley watches it all through tired eyes. The Narrator Instead he turns towards him again, and takes his hand.
"I think I may have a hunch what could help. I'm not quite certain that it will, but we can try. It worked once before right?" And suddenly, as the words are spoken, the room shifts as well. Stanley now sits on the soft bed of the apartment, albeit in a bit of an uncomfortable position. The Narrator assists him in sitting up, and as he does – as the candles illuminate the both of them in a soft lighting – Stanley begins to tear up. The Narrator watches for a few seconds, before cupping Stanley's face, rubbing soothing circles with a fond, soft smile gracing his face. Stanley's breath hitches, and when the Narrator pulls him into a hug he – at last – completely breaks down, all ugly sobbing, while the Narrator is whispering sweet nothings. It is all so oddly soothing that Stanley feels everything awful blend into the background for once, and it makes him cry even more. It all is so comforting, and Stanley never wants it to end. But at some point no more tears come out, his sobs quieten and the Narrator ushers Stanley to look at him. Dried tears and snot is on his face and he can tell that the Narrator is trying his best not to make a sound of disgust. It almost makes him laugh.
Until he remembers how they actually got here. "Say," the Narrator begins. "How long have you had this feeling?" Stanley swallows. That is kind of uncomfortable now.
"Since a few resets, actually. I didn't want to tell you, because I thought I could handle it. But it only got worse and worse."
The Narrator clicks his tongue in disapproval. Suddenly, it seemed like he had an idea. "Stanley, are you perhaps missing companionship?"
Stanley's head perked up. "What?"
"Well, I am always curious about the strange sensations of the human body, you know that. Recently I have been reading about the basic needs that the human body requires to function, and apparently one of those is companionship. While you and I obviously thought otherwise, I believe your body wants to tell you that you seek a better companion than 'just' a voice."
Stanley nods slowly. Sounds reasonable enough. He gestures at the Narrator to continue.
"You mentioned having the need for a hug before – what similar activity did you mention?"
It took Stanley a second to understand what the Narrator is referencing, but eventually he gets it. "You mean cuddling?"
"Yes!" the Narrator exclaims. "That. Honestly, I cannot see for the life of me how that is supposed to help you, but considering that a hug already did… I suppose we could try?"
Stanley smiles softly and nodded. He then took the Narrator's hands in his own, tugged lightly on them and let them both fall on the mattress. He guides the Narrator's arms around himself, and pulls himself close.
"You humans have an incredibly odd collection of methods to keep you sane," the Narrator mutters, and it sounded like he was genuinely confused, not sarcastic (for once). "And I have to confess, regretably so, that I am starting to enjoy them as well."
Stanley's heart flutters a little. He notices is eyes growing heavy. No suprise, after all the exhaustion, and everything that came with it is still there. But, now, with warmth around him, and the Narrator's soft rambling, plus a soft forehead kiss – also one of those "pesky human things" Stanley taught him – maybe it'll be okay after all.