I was your fish. I could breathe because of you, and I could live because of you. In a fit of desperation, I let the trash can eat the love letter that took me all night to write. "Your brother is," "Italy is"—everyone says the same thing, praising my brother and putting me down. Today, I pull my collection of complexes out from the back of the closet again.

Selling vegetables at the stall, doing some tailoring... Ugh. I wish the customers would just go home already. I actually prefer being insulted; I can't be a good boy at all.

But please, stay by my side until I die.

Ignorant, childish, and frivolous, I chased after you shallowly, saying things like "Marry me!" back then. It feels so nostalgic now. "It's an order!"—how ridiculous.

When you were taken by that Spanish bastard, a pink-tinted trauma was born. The person I liked. The person I loved. My treasure. The two people who looked at me for who I am got together—of course I'm happy. But I loved Guest too. Because I loved you, I was jealous. The more I think about what I'm lacking, the more things I find. Reasons why I'm not good enough, reasons why I'm not sufficient—I can find them endlessly. I'm not kind like him. I don't have a good disposition. I'm not cute. Because I'm always thinking about that, a customer told me "your eyes look dead." That's just how they always look, damn it.

The sweet dream of playing together back then is over now.

Don't you dare call me a child. Typing and deleting, typing and deleting on the screen—words like that belong in the trash.

Goodbye, my princess. I pretended to be cold to the core, and in the end, I gained nothing. Growing up, being a good boy—I'm done with all that. I'm done trying to be an adult or a good boy.

Goodbye, my princess.