I thought my life was the calmest part of the war.
It all broke overnight.
She fell in love with him, but found that he was the director of all disasters. He does it in the name of love. In the name of hatred, after his funeral, she came into contact with two other people similar to herself.
Is it love or hatred?
The perfect her, and the imperfect them.
There has to be a choice for someone to die. She, him, him - who is the superfluous existence?