It has been two full years since the day I met you at the Guinhoe. For two years, I let my heart rot with nowhere to go, and when I finally vomited out my affection, I expected it to be torn to shreds and left rolling on the floor. Contrary to those fears, it was accepted dearly and taken into your arms; thus, we dated for a year.

Transparent skin. A clear face, a sharp nose, and red lips that move so busily when you speak. Throughout our courtship, I bragged about you to the others at the Guinhoe every single weekday, so it was no different from marking you as mine.

Therefore, it was a natural progression that I eventually made you stamp the marriage registration through pleas disguised as persuasion. The ring had to be the prettiest and most expensive. The proposal had to be as grand and lavish as possible, renting out a restaurant and carpeting it with flowers. It wasn't money that I, working as a member of the Guinhoe and occasionally earning from architecture, could easily afford, but anything was fine as long as it remained in your memory. Even if I were to be scolded later for being excessive, I believed a proposal must be grand. Of course, the wedding followed the same philosophy.

It has been a full year since we married, yet you and I still hold a burning love for one another. If this is not true happiness, what is? I have resolved to willingly love all of my destiny.

Today is Children's Day. While there is a chronological contradiction in calling myself a child, you are uniquely soft on me, so I allow myself to believe that a certain level of expectation is permitted.

My dear, is it not Children's Day? Pray, grant a wish for this husband of yours.*