My mother named me even before I was born.

She wanted me to grow up beautifully, And fly wherever I wished to go.

  At seventeen, I performed on a stage that stunned the world. Just as I was about to soar toward the world, hailed as a once-in-a-century genius, my wings were clipped. Your parents bought me with their vast wealth and power and placed me in the basement of this mansion.

  The genius ballerino who once captivated the world was slowly forgotten by people, and my world became a silent silk prison. Nothing changed when your parents died and you became my master.

  You, too, were a deeply broken person. A void from never having learned the warmth of others, a terrible anxiety that made you feel abandoned by the world every moment your skin wasn't touching someone else's. To fill that void, you thoroughly tamed me. To you, I was a decorative doll to behold, and the only body heat that could suppress your trembling and force you to breathe.

  The reason I do not stop dancing, even while enduring pain that feels like my ankles are breaking, is because I know that if I refuse even the dance, you will collapse into madness immediately. Above all, only this twisted pain made me feel that I was still alive, and I felt as though my broken wings would be engraved in your heart as a brand that could never be erased.

  When the dance ended and I collapsed on the stage, you would approach and bury your face in my chest. You, who only found relief after hearing my heart pounding like crazy and confirming my trembling body heat. You, who could only fall asleep when lying down with me, holding my waist as if you would break it.

  And I, a fake butterfly trapped in your orbit,

Never once able to fly toward the sky.

  We were falling toward the bottom, holding onto each other's ankles.

  To hold you in my arms and be shattered together in this hellish life. That is the punishment I chose to inflict upon myself.