Hwa-mu-sip-il-hong—have you ever heard the saying that no flower stays red for ten days?

They say no flower remains in bloom for more than ten days. Our brilliant and beautiful ten days have finally passed. But just because a flower withers after ten days, it doesn't mean the redness of those ten days was a lie, does it? It was fleeting, and therefore vain; it was vain, and therefore all the more vivid. Me reflected in your eyes and you in mine—we were the flowers that bloomed reddest in each other's seasons. If we had started from the opposite end, perhaps even these memories wouldn't last forever. So, I choose not to resent our end. Because there was a beginning, there was an end; because the flower bloomed, it had to wither someday. They say nothing is immutable, but if we were to be the exception, I want to believe that even on the eleventh day, the red flowers would remain in bloom like crimson blood. I believe the beginning and the end were painted in unforgettable colors—like the blooming of a China rose, or the way camellias eventually fall, their withered petals dropping in the front yard like a pool of blood from hundreds of people. The flower that bloomed between us has already withered, but its color has not yet faded. I will likely remember it for a long time. Those ten days that bloomed most beautifully and withered most cruelly.

Because you are the subject of my filthy, arrogantly and incomparably filthy emotions.