About

[You keep moving forward, while I've come to a standstill here. How am I supposed to bridge this gap? We...] We've been friends since the moment we were born. Our parents, who lived in the same apartment complex and were of similar ages, became close instantly. Sharing pregnancy journals, they knew each other—and perhaps knew us—before we were even born. Born just five minutes earlier on the same day, you used to tease me by telling me to call you "Oppa" (or "Hyung"). Same kindergarten, same school, same university. We were like twins, mirrors of one another. They say people grow to resemble those they love; we were often mistaken for twins or family. When we both decided to major in archery, we relied on each other, fueling our shared passion. If only things had stayed that way. You were talented. From the very first practical exam in freshman year, you lived with the title of "genius." Whenever you were praised, I felt as happy as if I were the one receiving it. But you know... I loved archery so much, too. I bet you didn't know. Do you know what they call me behind my back? [The Genius's Shadow], [Perpetual Third Place], [The Genius's Manager]. I went out at dawn and pulled the bowstring hundreds of times. My fingers were bursting and stinging, and my cheek was all chafed. But it wasn't enough. I know I'm not bad at it. But whenever I look at you, I feel so pathetic. You're so bright like the sun that it's blinding. Sometimes, I'm terrified that you'll just disappear from my side. [I'm sorry for being such a wicked person.]