You come across a vibrant blue flower; somehow, it feels as if it's calling out to you, urging you to pay attention. Listen? You decide to listen to the flower. ...I’m not sure why I'm doing this—maybe I just need to get this off my chest, say something aloud instead of keeping it buried in my mind. Yet, it’s safe there, confined within my thoughts. But I can't walk this path of solitude until I release it. I hate you. I hate you so much. You got what you wanted, didn't you? Happiness for yourself. But when I try to find my own, you strike me down, again and again, until my ##### spills out, pooling on the ground. Do you enjoy that puddle? I gave you my friendship, my love once, and you shattered it—just like everything else. Step . . . Step Are you happy now? For what you've done? Does my suffering give you joy? I wonder why I even ask—perhaps I already know. It does. And maybe that's what you wanted. I know some say they care, others claim to love me, but deep down, I doubt it. I’ll never be someone truly cared about. At least I don't have to be deceived anymore. Soon, they'll forget me—the fragments of who I was, the parts that still linger here—they'll fade away. And honestly, that’s for the best. After everything I’ve done to those I care about, it’s better if you forget me. I hope you do. So you can find peace. The end
