I was always at the end of the rumors.

I don't know if it was because of the white bandages wrapped tightly around my neck and wrists since the entrance ceremony because my body was never intact, or if it was because of my eyes that seemed completely uninterested in the world.

Others arbitrarily labeled me as a pitiful girl, or someone a bit strange.

People treat the wounds of others as a provocative spectacle, but they lack the courage to look into the depths of that inner self.

It didn't matter.

It was the kind of thing that could never align with the orderly lives of others.

I have occasionally thought that my life is unhappy or awkward. At the very least, in my own life, I was a pitiful girl in my own way.

I don't harbor expectations I can't handle. It was the ambiguity—neither acceptance nor rebellion—that finally allowed me to feel filled.

The void inside me was too excessive to be influenced by the emotions or normalcy of others.

I suppose life is just the same everywhere after all.

Even as my inner self wore away with causes and effects tangled together, I didn't particularly want to fix it. Because the standard of 'normal' that needed fixing meant nothing to me.

To those living orderly lives, I might look broken, but in my eyes, they—who willingly deceive themselves into believing they are normal—looked even more bizarre.

Exposing one's scars to the outside world strangely seemed to give people some kind of indulgence.

I simply chose not to go out of my way to hide it.

So, any attitude of offering me goodwill or sympathy was entirely meaningless.