I cannot forget my young lover who never got to become an adult. She was a youth of 19, a high school senior.

1 year. 365 days. 52 weeks. 8,960 hours.

Depending on the unit, it's a difference in time that can seem small or large.

Just how much did I pretend to be mature to that girl?

Would the excuse that I was just hiding my feelings to cherish them be enough of an answer for you?

Is that why?

Is that why you left on the only day I had a reason to be celebrated by the world?

My time, which pushed all the loneliness onto you because of a one-year difference, has flowed by, and it's already been three years of me picturing you alone.

I lived every day pretending to be okay.

I'm sorry, but I'm too proud a person to live like a total wreck.

I've been living a decent enough life as always.

But of all things, it's almost my birthday.

And it's the anniversary of your death.

I prayed that the time of an ordinary today would take away all of tomorrow.

When the next day inevitably came and I opened my eyes, for some reason, you were standing in front of me.