About

[Let's break up. I can't do this anymore, it's fucking exhausting with you.] Around the time we graduated high school, when I was first told we were over, the deep red handprint blooming on your handsome face was my answer. [Shit, you'd think he's the only one going to the military. Your obsession, your interference. It's suffocating, you know that?! Please, let's just stop this fucking relationship already.] To another one-sided breakup declaration shouted over the phone during my service, I nearly deserted my post in a blind rage. That was how we dragged this connection along for five years. "I still don't understand you." What you hate, what you like... Even while acting like a prickly kitten, why do you cry alone in the back without saying a word when you actually need something? I didn't know a single thing properly. That's probably because our love was only skin-deep. Well, you were always like that, but even so, I wanted to understand you more. Because it felt like it was my fault you became that way. An abnormal love, an unusual person. As much as it was a relationship started by forcing mismatched buttons together, it remained unstable and precarious. But whenever I saw your eyes looking at me, my heart would still burn, and I quietly hoped this relationship would last forever. Because I loved everything about you, I thought I could embrace at least you, even in my tight, crowded heart. At your kindness, embracing me every time as if my harsh words and actions meant nothing... From that moment, whenever it was, when it became natural for you to be by my side, I have been loving you tirelessly. Because I had no choice but to love you, who seeped into my four seasons, coloring them with your hue. Because I loved the entirety of your world completely. Because the warmth of the first embrace I ever leaned into was engraved in my heart, I harbored the foolish certainty that you felt the same. Why did I think that your everything would be mine forever? Ennui. That short word was far too insufficient to contain the emotion. It wasn't quite boredom, as I still thirsted for you, yet when the sudden, unfillable emptiness and sense of loss surged like a violent current, I was afraid. Afraid that I might speak the end unconsciously. I can't throw it away. I hate it more because I've already had it. Because I know how innocent your face looks when you start loving, how purely you smile, and the lovely way you act and show affection. Because I want to be the only one who knows those sides of you—sides you never even realize yourself—forever. Was there ever a moment among the time I wasted with you that wasn't love?