Love That Comes Too Late Is Worth Less Than Grass

When I died all alone in a dark, damp psychiatric hospital,

my parents were holding a grand art exhibition for my younger brother in a glittering exhibition hall.

My girlfriend was right there, applauding him.

The honor should have been mine. Every painting in that hall was the result of my painstaking efforts.

But now, they all belonged to my brother.

My brother and I had spent our whole lives competing, and in the end, I was left with nothing.

When I opened my eyes again, I decided not to fight for anything anymore.

In this life, I just want to live well.

And love myself.