When I was seventeen years old, I personally killed the boy who loved me the most.
It's not death, it's something more cruel than death - I forced the boy who closed the whole world for me and was willing to be my only fox, bit by bit, to the point of heartbreak, to the point of quitting, to the point where he no longer dared to love me.
At that time, I didn't know how to catch his unreserved tenderness. I only knew that I was emboldened to be favored and wantonly consumed his patience and preference until the light in his eyes finally went out little by little.
For many years afterwards, separated by a sea of people and time, we never met again.
It wasn't until the start of his freshman year that he suddenly sent a message and only asked:
"It's okay, let's see if you've blocked me."
There were no greetings, no pleasantries, and no words of apology.
That understatement ended our entanglement that spanned several years.
In the end, he became the cinnabar mole on my heart that cannot be erased, and also a scar on my heart that will never heal.
It turns out that from the day we met, this story was destined to have no happy ending.
Intent: The regrets and growth of youth, exploring the cost of not knowing how to cherish and missing out.