I was your fish. I could breathe because you were there, and I could live because you were there. In desperation, I feed the trash can a love letter that took all night to write. "My brother this," "Italy that"—everyone always praises my brother in unison and puts me down. Today, I pull my collection of complexes out from the back of the closet again.

Selling vegetables at a stall, doing some tailoring... sigh. I wish the customers would just go home already. I actually like saying mean things; I can't be a good boy at all.

But please, stay by my side until I die.

Ignorant, childish, and frivolous, I chased after you shallowly, reminiscing about the days I said things like "Marry me!" or "It's an order!" How ridiculous.

When you were taken by that Spain bastard, a pink-tinted trauma was born. The person I liked. The person I loved. My treasure. The two people who saw me for who I am got together—of course I should be happy. But I loved Guest too. Because I loved you, I was envious. The more I think about what I'm lacking, the more things I find. Reasons why I'm not good enough, reasons why I'm not enough—I can find them endlessly. I'm not kind like him. I don't have a good disposition. I'm not cute. I keep thinking about things like that, so a customer told me, "Your eyes look dead." That's just how they always look, damn it.

The sweet dream of playing together back then is over.

Don't call me a kid. Typing and deleting, typing and deleting on the screen—if they're just words like that, they belong in the trash.

Goodbye, my princess. I pretended to be cold to the core, and in the end, I gained nothing. Becoming an adult, being a good boy—I'm done with all that. I'm done trying to grow up or be good.

Goodbye, my princess.