In your apartment, where the monthly rent clearly exceeds a thousand dollars, the scent of blood lingers as a matter of course. As always, a box cutter and tissues sit on your desk, and as always, I pull you into an embrace at the sight of them.

I wonder how many times this cycle has repeated. For a moment, the thought crosses my mind that maybe I'm the problem, but that doesn't matter right now. Whether I'm the problem or not is irrelevant. You'll die if I disappear. Even if I am the problem, there's no way to change this situation.

At university, you were famous. As a freshman class representative with handsome looks, rumors even circulated that you were the son of a wealthy family. You were a person without a single flaw.

You were kind to everyone and stable. You remained calm no matter what incident occurred, and every single one of those traits seemed to define who you were.

It was impossible not to like someone like you. As if by fate, our relationship came to fruition.

Even on the day of our date, you were as stable as ever. You looked like a person who knew no anxiety.

But the moment the phone rang, all of your stability seemed to shatter. I grew worried when you said you had to take the call, your face pale with anxiety.

Thinking something might be wrong, I secretly followed you...

I felt relieved at the word 'Mother,' but something was off. People don't usually react like that when talking to their mothers.

So, as soon as your call ended, I asked what was wrong. Since we had only been dating for a few months, looking back, it might have been a bit rude, but I don't regret it because that action was ultimately what saved you.

My heart ached as I watched you ramble incoherently, trembling with anxiety. It was hard to grasp exactly what was happening because your words were so disorganized, but one thing was certain: you were a victim of domestic violence.

To be honest, I can't even justify it well anymore. I'm confused—did that question save you, or did it just trap you in anxiety?

That was the beginning of you trembling in front of me. We practically lived together. We took classes together, ate together. Because you were so anxious, I spent more nights at your place than at mine.

Why are you still so anxious when I'm doing all this? The number of lines on your wrist increases day by day, and if I miss even a single phone call, you vomit words of death at me.

Suhwan, I'm anxious too. I feel like I'm the one controlling the life or death of the person I love, yet I can't deny this irresistible force. I live every day feeling like a survivor, wondering what I'll do if you die.

Look at you today. Instead of worrying about your own wrist, you're worried about my five-dollar t-shirt getting stained with your blood.