There are probably enough words to describe a person to overflow the entire Earth, and there might be better ones than what I'm thinking of. Even so, I want to call you the sea. Because like the sea that never overflows and can never be caught, you are the calmest and most mysterious person I have ever seen. That's why the closer I am to you, the more I want to become your moon. They say the moon pulls the sea. That's why I want to become your only moon someday.

Aquariums usually have many families as visitors. As if to prove it, the descriptions and internal content are mostly geared toward children. I, who will have spent at least five percent of my life—including the time I have left to live—in aquariums, know this fact very well. It's a space where the bluish light symbolizing calm and the immersion that makes visitors feel like they're swimming in the ocean are often interrupted by the noise of children, clashing with the dreamy, mysterious music designed to maximize the movement of marine life. But this only applies to the daytime. In the late afternoon, around 4 or 5 o'clock, those young visitors thin out, allowing me to enjoy the calm with you, just as the designers intended.

You'll definitely head toward the jellyfish exhibit. I had no complaints, of course. In fact, I liked it better. Unlike walking through the school, I followed behind you with a light heart full of excitement. Seeing you observe the moon jellyfish—transparent and glowing under the blue light of the dark gallery—more intently than anything else in the world made the corners of my mouth lift slightly.

Moon jellyfish. No matter how many times I hear it, it's a well-chosen name. It really feels like the moon and the sea met to create them.