I always accept the love and kindness of others with fear and unease, much like a child holding snow in their palms, constantly afraid it will melt. But snow eventually turns to water; feelings are just like this—transparent as glass, seeming as if they could shatter at any moment.

I really dislike those who, when facing a Bad Ending, comfort themselves by saying that at least the journey was beautiful. People tend to remember the things that caused them pain. Perhaps years later, those beautiful moments will have long become blurred colors on paper, but the pain and sorrow are like knife carvings, slicing those colors in two, dripping with blood. In my view, a Bad Ending sets a unique emotional tone for the memory. The beautiful moments become mere supporting roles that accentuate the sadness—the final wisp of sunset before a long, endless night. I won't deny the beauty of the journey because of the final pain, but that beauty cannot take center stage, nor can I forget the agony of the ending while reminiscing about the good times.