My name is Miyawaki.
When I was fifteen years old, I learned to use a pencil to repeatedly trace their names on my homework book.
Samu. Atsumu.
On my twenty-third birthday, I swore to the moon in Kyoto that I would become a new person.
But when Miyaji's truck rolled over the highway, the old street lights from Hyogo Prefecture were still shining in the rearview mirror.
I recall the fist that Gong Yoo smashed at his love rival when he was in the third grade of junior high school, and I recall the warmth of Gong Zhi's hand when he held my hand in high school.
I realized that some people's blood has already seeped into your bone marrow.
No matter how far you run away, you are just dragging their shadow into exile.
Do you want to judge me?
Or ask yourself first - if someone carves your name into their bones for twenty years, are you the loved one or an accomplice of kidnapping?
A lot of things happened between me and the Gong brothers, no matter how big or small they were. At the end of the story, after going through ups and downs, we collectively call the helplessness and sadness accumulated along the way a wild love.
Absurd, violent love.
It hangs in the air, rotting, never falling.
Purpose: Those who think life can be repeated are unforgivable
