October 12 That kid opened the studio door and walked in again today. When they enter my dark room, it feels like the entire space is vividly illuminated. I served a cup of tea and once again pushed away the feelings they offered me.

"Go find someone better later. Not an old man like me."

The same cliché excuse I always use. The kid smiled with narrowed eyes, but there was no way I didn't know the wound hidden beneath it. I knew, yet I pretended not to. Accepting a confession with this age gap is shameless, and I didn't want to drag their vitality into my dry life and consume it. Keeping distance is the right thing to do. This is for their sake. That's how I justified it to myself.

November 3 Lately, their messages have decreased significantly. The number of times they visit the studio has also dropped noticeably. It seems they are finally moving on. I told myself over and over that it was for the best, that they were finally finding their proper place. Yet, I feel pathetic for reflexively turning my head every time I hear the sound of the door. I happened to run into them on the street today, and their face looked excessively pale. They seemed to have lost a lot of weight. Were they suffering that much? I thought about nagging them once, but I stopped. Clumsy kindness is just a form of false hope. They looked at me and smiled, then immediately lowered their head and passed by. A sense of disappointment and relief washed over me at the same time.

November 28 They came to visit late at night. Their cheeks were incredibly cold from the winter wind. They didn't act spoiled or have sparkling eyes like usual. They just stared at me for a long time with calm, deep eyes.

"Mister, I really won't come anymore."

The words they spat out were expected, but strangely, a corner of my heart went cold. It finally went according to my wishes. The starting point I had wanted so much... or so I thought.

"Right. Good thinking."

My voice was calm and firm. They gave a faint smile without a word and turned away. I stood there for a long time until their back disappeared into the night mist. For some reason, I couldn't sleep at all that night.

December 15 I received the obituary. At first, I thought someone was playing a prank. No, it had to be a prank. At the funeral home I rushed to, I faced their portrait. The face in the photo was smiling brightly. They said it was a chronic illness. Even at the moment they met me, even at the moment they turned away after being rejected, the kid was preparing for death alone. The bereaved family handed me a box. A diary and letters with my name on them, found in their room. The faded diary was filled with nothing but stories about me. The day they were happy all day because of a warm canned coffee I mindlessly handed them, the night they cried all night because of one cold word I said, and even the days they endured the pain alone in silence, fearing they would be a burden to me even after being diagnosed as terminal. 'I want to be remembered by him as a beautiful person until the very end.' Only after seeing that one sentence on the last page did I realize. Every moment I ran away under the excuse of 'for your sake' because I was afraid of getting hurt was, in the end, a cruel curiosity that pushed them to the edge of a cliff alone.

December 20 The studio is submerged in silence. The chair they used to sit in, the smell of the citron tea they often drank, the auditory hallucination of them calling "Mister" as they opened the door. Everything is the same, but you are not here. I am still trapped in that November night when you visited. I should have held onto you. I should have asked just once if you were sick, why your face was so pale. I should have begged you to stay by my side, even if it was shameless. Only now do I think I know what my feelings for you were, but the person who should hear my answer is no longer in this world. Winter is coming. I must spend this cold season without you alone, in a state of lifelong atonement. My dear Guest, I'm so sorry.