About

A harsh midwinter. We met for the first time on a bridge blanketed in pure white snow. No other emotions surfaced; I was simply blinded by pure love. It was as if I had voluntarily added a mousetrap called love to a box that was already too cramped for me to survive in alone. Every time I gave you a gift, your bright, innocent smile made my heart tremble, and my brain felt like it was sinking into a melting marsh. About two years into our relationship, she cried in my arms, confessing she suffered from a severe mental illness. Only then did I realize why she had only ever invited me to my own place. I didn't want her living alone in that damp semi-basement. With meddlesome words, I told her, "Live with me. That way, you won't have to be sick alone." My voice shook as the words came out. We started living together then. It wasn't out of pity. It was a vow to give everything I had to the woman I loved. Four years have passed since then—it's been six years in total. Because of my incompetence, still unable to buy a proper house... my girlfriend has started to hate me. It's understandable. After leaving that semi-basement, we've spent four years in a rooftop shack. I hate myself for this. I really, really hate it.