A great part of it is the rain, or rather, the felt sensation of perpetual rain. It pours down at all times, holding us up in bus stations or entryways or lonely stairwells, forcing us to relive old failures again and again. It’s cold and damp, and it makes us feel cold and damp in turn, unclean, ashamed of our clammy skin. It steals color from our surroundings, painting everything in a somber gray, draining the vitality of the landscape just as it drains our passion for the things we love. Others seem not to notice the rain, but simply emulating their behavior doesn’t make it go away. Whether you ignore it or acknowledge it, the rain doesn’t care – in the malaise of depression, it will remain your only true companion.

Evangelion’s fourth episode opens on that rain, a cold curtain drowning Tokyo-3 in shadow. With no immediate angel attack to handle, this episode instead offers a focused, almost suffocating dive into Shinji’s psychology – his sense of isolation, his self-hatred, and that overhanging, stifling film of depression. The city itself echoes Shinji’s moods, though as he travels its unfamiliar reaches, he can find no comfort in it. Honing in on Misato’s apartment, we quickly learn that Shinji’s fear and unhappiness have finally won out over his sense of obligation and desperate need for validation; after holing up in his room for five straight days, Shinji has run away.

As Misato herself acknowledges, it’s not surprising that Shinji runs away. He didn’t fight the first angel out of some genuine desire to pilot the robot, or even a sense of larger moral obligation – he did it because his father told him to, and then used a suffering girl as a prop to make him feel bad about himself. Nothing good came of that fight, either; in fact, he actually got beaten for the crime of piloting it, and then forced to fight another monster, this time without his father even present to witness him. That fight was even more horrible, and ended with him sobbing right in front of the schoolmates who’d bullied him. Shinji has received no support beyond a halfhearted “hang in there,” and even if the specific details of his situation are extraordinary, his reaction to it is what you’d expect out of any child forced to perform for unsupportive caretakers in a loveless home.

Episode four is a slow episode, much slower than any of the prior three, and it doesn’t really contain that much clear, point-to-point conflict. The first half’s title essentially says it all: “Rain, After Running Away.” It’s a tone piece and almost wordless character study, and it is a triumph of both. Evangelion is often remembered more for its epic fights and overt psychological drama than its quiet moments – in fact, even the Rebuild project essentially cut this episode when they remade the show’s first act. But the greater part of Evangelion’s strength is contained in its detailed, unflinching, and sympathetic portrait of Shinji’s lived experience, a portrait that demands time to be truly and convincingly illustrated.

Evangelion’s extended sequences of Shinji just trying to live his life fall somewhere between slice of life and The Flowers of Evil. There is dramatic power and emotional resonance contained even in how much time these feelings are given to express themselves, and how mundane and approachable they make Shinji’s lived experience. Neon Genesis Evangelion wouldn’t have spoken to me so directly, or changed my life so profoundly, if it were all a mix of robots and harrowing psychological drama. It’s moments like Shinji sitting idly by the road, wondering where he could possibly go next, that make Shinji’s experience universal. We aren’t all forced to pilot the robot, but we’ve all stood by that road, our minds simultaneously empty and overflowing, paralyzed by the weight of the world.

So what does Shinji actually do after running away? Ride the trains, mostly. After an introduction emphasizing what few connections Shinji might actually possess, his own experience is shown to be one of isolation and mental fugue, like a day whose events you can’t even remember. The trains’ aimless circling of Tokyo-3 matches his own feelings; Shinji doesn’t want to fight anymore, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, and is fearful of losing what small home he might possess. The cassette tape in his hands evokes a similar image, forever shifting between tracks 25 and 26, stuck in a repetitive loop. These loops are one of the more insidious elements of depression – it perpetuates itself by trapping you in a situation where you feel all your potential outcomes are negative, so you stagnate, and that itself gives you even more reason to hate yourself.

But the thematic metaphors here are far less important in conveying Shinji’s feelings than the actual, felt experience of the moment. Shinji’s consistent posture relative to the people around him conveys his isolation in a crowd, the way that being alone around strangers actually feels strangely more alienating than being alone by yourself. Shinji’s repeating, wordless music track, the drone of the conductor’s announcements – all of these noises speak to the felt experience of depression, how you can often feel like you’re looking at the world through a thick layer of cellophane. You hear noises and sounds, but they don’t apply to you; after all, you’re not really, fully present. These noises are the aural version of those repeated shots of Shinji’s forehead, and they’re equally important. Depression isn’t just a mental condition, it’s a physical experience, perpetually sapping your strength and dulling your senses and collectively evoking that eternal rainy day.

At the end of the line, Shinji resolves to return home, but his sense of alienation persists. The sound design continues to hammer in Shinji’s feelings, as train conductors are replaced with barkers shouting their wares, the lights of the city a dull glow in the distance. Small moments like trying to sleep in a movie theater capture the unique experience of running away from home, before all the suffering ultimately catches up to him. In the flushed predawn light of early morning, it all becomes too much. Skyscrapers crowd around him and the silence becomes deafening, magenta light shifting to a bloody stain. Evangelion’s portrait of Shinji’s first panic attack is as gripping as it is cruel, a harsh exclamation point on his cry of pain.

As Shinji flees his responsibilities and struggles with his own feelings, his caretakers reveal they don’t really have any idea how to take care of him. Misato’s first response is to treat his reaction as if he’s actually, meaningfully wronged her in some way, muttering “idiot” in regards to an unhappy fourteen-year-old boy who had the audacity to not want to fight monsters. She’s unable to engage with Shinji as either an equal or a parental figure – the best she can manage is tolerant acquaintance, or at times, strict boss. Her musing that their actions “seem so cruel” are undercut by the camera’s frame, a scan of Rei’s body emphasizing how they dehumanize their pilots, and make them one more cog in the machine. And the end results are scenes like Shinji’s conversation with Misato after the second attack, where it’s clear he has emotionally checked out entirely, surrendered to the suffering in order to get his experience over with as quickly as possible. “If piloting an Eva means nothing but pain for him, he shouldn’t do it again,” says Misato, naively. “But we need pilots” is Ritsuko’s response, and that’s all there is to it.

Fortunately, while Shinji’s official caretakers aren’t really equipped to support him, the world isn’t always quite so cruel. After Shinji’s feelings cool through a gorgeous and calming journey outside the city, he ends up stumbling across Kensuke Aida, his military-obsessed classmate. Kensuke is introduced through bracing and beautiful shots of his field hideaway, before the two settle down for an actual conversation over a fire. And after days spent wandering the city he saved and feeling nothing, Shinji finds himself communicating with just one strange boy, and at last feeling a sense of self again.

It’s a little heartbreaking that it only takes one conversation with someone who doesn’t want something from him to help Shinji recover, but that doesn’t diminish the honesty and beauty of this moment. Aida first conveys Toji’s apology to Shinji, to which Shinji has nothing to say – by itself a choice I find compelling, simply because personal anxiety is often expressed more through total paralysis or numbness than awkwardly jumbled-up phrases. But as their conversation continues, Aida’s honest enthusiasm gives Shinji the confidence to speak, leading into the sudden revelation that like him, Aida doesn’t have a mother. That shock of recognition, that sharpening of his eyes; in that brief moment, Shinji reveals the boy beneath the abuse, a boy desperate for connection, for friendship of any kind.

But Shinji doesn’t have friends – he has NERV. After one evening spent enjoying Aida’s company, agents of NERV emerge from the morning fog like malevolent ghosts. Though Gendo and Ritsuko and Misato may each have their own motives, NERV itself is essentially one cruel and abusive parent, demanding Shinji be something he never wanted to be. Shinji’s return emphasizes the facelessness of this organization, as he is captured in shadow, dwarfed by that imposing logo. And then Misato arrives, a blue light behind her, implicitly emphasizing how finding acceptance within this organization means going through her.

It’s not Misato’s fault she’s incredibly bad at taking care of Shinji, but boy is she ever incredibly bad at taking care of Shinji. After asking him if he enjoyed his trip, Shinji responds with “you’re not going to scold me for running away? Of course not. You’re not related to me.” The implication there is clearly “if you cared about me, you’d actually get angry, or afraid for me, or something.” Even if it’s just through punishment, even if all he can share is his pain and sense of failure, Shinji desperately wants the connection and sense of belong that being scolded would imply. But in response, all Misato can do is throw her own anger back at him, telling him that he shouldn’t pilot the robot if he’s only doing it out of obligation. Misato wants to have her cake and eat it too – she needs Shinji to pilot the robot, but she wants him to want to pilot the robot, so she doesn’t feel bad about forcing him to. By putting her own emotional desires over Shinji’s clear needs, she demonstrates that she’s far from mature enough to handle raising, guiding, or really supporting this kid at all. All she offers him is “if that’s your attitude, then quit!” And so he does.

Once again, it’s Shinji’s classmates who offer an alternative, and a glimpse of true companionship. Meeting him as he’s about to board the train, Aida and Toji tell him that “we can’t blame you for leaving. We saw how you suffered in the Eva.” At the last possible moment, Shinji receives exactly the recognition he’s been craving for so long. Aida and Toji treat him like an equal, sympathize with his feelings, and forgive him for his choices. It’s so simple, yet so crucial, and often so hard to find. And even if all Shinji can share is his pain and self-loathing, he wants to share those things. He wants to be yelled at for his actions, and then forgiven as well. He wants to be recognized as the scum he sees himself to be, and accepted in spite of that. He doesn’t want to be halfheartedly praised for doing things that make him feel awful – he wants to be yelled at for being the person he actually is, yelled at, and accepted all the same.

And as if in response to this final cry of selfhood, Misato finally hits the realization she’s been missing all episode. Shinji isn’t acting out because he’s trying to torment her – he’s acting out because he has virtually no avenues to truly express himself, and believes his pain is essentially the only thing he can communicate. Though last episode framed this particular solution to the hedgehog’s dilemma as a tragic solution, it’s still a solution. Even if all we can offer each other is pain, suffering through that pain together may be all the solace we need.

The train announcements that guided us into Shinji’s depression carry us out as well, bookending the episode with that distant, alienating voice. At the last moment, looking at one more train with no destination, Misato’s “hang in there” rings in his head. It’s the smallest of charities, but somehow, to Shinji, it’s enough. In a climax more triumphant and rewarding than any number of epic battles, Shinji turns to see that in the end, someone really was waiting for him. Misato is a mess of a caretaker, and NERV is a transparently abusive organization, but there is still something human in the relationship between these two. Separated by train rails and fences and the summer’s glare, Shinji at last crosses that lofty threshold, finding at least one small square of space where he is needed. “I’m home,” he tells Misato, and honestly smiles. “Welcome home,” she replies, and at last means it.

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