Flip the pages back several years back into a certain girl’s anime-seeped tome and read of a body horror manga clutched to her quivering bosom; stars in her eyes, smile on her lips. She scrawled lengthy meta regarding a quartet of antiheroes enamoured with, ardently discussing psychic complexities strewn throughout each chapter alluding to fraught motivations, singing its praises whenever possible. Once those favourites were sent staggering off to the margins in disgrace however, narrative this arid wilderness with turgid political machinations just about sustaining it, a glimmer once shining so brightly began to fade; stars falling back down to earth. Monthly check-ins turned into quarter-year, once-a-year binges.

It wasn’t long before she turned her back on a series dearly treasured, a series once considered a firm favourite. And this is where the fairy tale comes to a shuddering halt, no longer a girlish tale of enthrallment but a dismal reality fuelled by disillusionment. By the time my favourites once again surfaced several years later I had long since lost interest in the franchise, it being a case of too little too late. Time spent at arm’s distance facilitated the dejected removal of rose-tinted glasses, scrutinizing missteps I once poked fun at (and may have even found charming).

Mangaka Isayama Hajime turning his back on the work’s erotic game roots, highlighting the current political climate whenever possible as Attack on Titan became further subjected to commercial acclaim left a bitter aftertaste. Concerning nationalistic insinuations which I, in all my youthful exuberance never once considered, proved to be alarming, sending my head reeling at all the insidious connotations which failed to register. Interviews around the time of the first season where Isayama openly spoke of altering the narrative in order to suit the series’ success proved to be vexing, as did hearing of the repulsive live-action films in which Mikasa underwent a repellent form of degradation, reduced to a swooning ingénue – a far cry from the capable woman who wouldn’t hesitate to quash any figure, man or titan. Finally, I learned that my favourite character, whom I had passionately defended for years, had been killed off the night before an exam. It seemed prophetic, almost. At last dousing the faint plumes of my love for a franchise which threatened to be extinguished at any moment.

With heavy feet and heavier heart I nevertheless found myself tuning into the second season of Attack on Titan which aired earlier this year, albeit with a mild sense of dread thinking of its director admitting over a year ago that he had no idea how to approach a key scene. Material I could scarcely imagine in 2011 was due to air in just a few weeks, days, hours. Although a level of chill reservation once again kept me distanced, I nevertheless found myself appreciating the anime portraying the series at its finest. Historia and Ymir’s beautiful, emotionally-charged moment of resolution in which two lonely hearts manage to connect, however fleetingly.

Rain hinting at discord, tattered red flags fluttering alongside precarious relationships under strain, tension taut as a violin string with the environment similarly reflecting the psychic limits of the cast as they are at last pushed to their absolute limits mentally and physically; hope’s gleam irreversibly dulled. Historia’s eyes blaze with determination for her dear comrade, a warm hand extended. And yet, something looms.

Consistent wide shots of the wall its cast are perched precariously on makes for a disorientating visual shift, almost claustrophobic. Something is about to change forever and Reiner’s worries are palpable, the shift in atmosphere reflecting through grimy puddles alluding to the dual nature of ‘soldier’ and ‘warrior’ toiling within, agonizing over disparate sides, of lives lived and lost. Over what is expected of him offset against what he so dearly desires to do. It has been less than 24 hours since they captured Annie, so perhaps it is no wonder that two of the Hometown trio are left to ponder the abyssal greys of their mortality.

Eren dangles a sliver of hope in front of a man so lost with the reflective properties coming fierce and fast, perilous as roles within. Score so absent for much of the episode bursts in with jittery, discordant violins. Pools waver as a flag representing peace, bonds at last tumbles to the bottom with a dismal echo – “we were just kids… didn’t know a thing”. Terrified child soldiers. Tense. Tragic.

Not too long after the second season reached its grisly end, I found myself once again reaching for the manga, cursing all the while. Things had changed. But despite the focus having shifted over to one of my only surviving favourites, the anime had done little to reignite the flame that years of mire mingled with disappointment had doused. I will not see the manga’s end, and I will not be watching the third season. Witnessing the infamously catastrophic decline in home release sales – the worst in living memory – I cannot help but wonder if others felt similarly.

If they had long since grown tired of Wit Studio’s naked machinations in stringing audiences along, churning out shoddily compiled films and spin-offs instead of long sought-after second seasons. If their favourites had died, eyeing merchandise with a dull ache. If they had just grew up, like I had, no longer a giddy girl in her late teens but a drained twenty-something.

These things, they happen.

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