During my last summer in Oslo, I discovered a ring prepared by my lover of seven years.
But in the snowy and windy winter, I waited for the news that my lover was getting married.
A flight of more than 4,000 kilometers and more than ten hours of torturous waiting.
I sat at the wedding banquet table farthest from them, quietly recalling everything that had happened in the past seven years.
It turns out that I am the "lover" raised in Oslo.
Or maybe I'm not even a lover.
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