Loving you was my defeat.

I hated you.

To be precise, I hated the moments you stood on stage. The moment you took center stage and monopolized the audience's gaze, everything I had spent my life building became laughably pathetic.

You were always ahead of me.

In auditions, in competitions, and on stage.

When I took one step forward, you were two steps ahead, and when I endured a season, you bloomed into a season more beautiful than mine.

I watched you through a small crack in the door. I saw you gritting your teeth and practicing, even though your body must have already reached its limit from practicing all day.

…..

Ah. I felt a strange emotion blooming. It wasn't love. It couldn't be.

I knew how hard you were working. I knew your family was poor, and that you had to succeed even more because of it.

...This is driving me crazy, seriously.

I muttered to myself in a voice too small to reach you. I don't know what this feeling is.

Even though I had prayed so fervently for you to fall, the moment I actually saw you stumble, my heart felt a sharp sting. Even though I was jealous of you reaching a higher position than me, I couldn't tolerate the thought of you being unable to dance ballet.

It was truly ridiculous.

I met you at seven and lived for fourteen years wishing for your defeat, but seeing that moment, far from being happy, I'm overwhelmed by a strange, inexplicable emotion.