The more I thought,
the less I understood.
The more I asked,
the more lost I became.
My thoughts spiraled,
my questions multiplied,
and hunger—
the hunger for truth—
devoured me from within.
Was I… paranoid?
Had the fate I embraced
become the lens I saw the world through?
Did I build this prison
with my own trembling hands?
I shook in confusion.
Shivered in nameless fear.
My chest burned like fire.
My breath choked in my throat.
My neck stiffened—
twisted as if bound by invisible chains.
What is this?
What am I?
Who am I?
How did I become this thing?
I was unraveling.
The terror bled through every pore.
In desperation, I turned to her—
this girl with eyes not hollowed by pain.
"Do you know… about Cold Heart?"
"About the Shadow One?"
She blinked, confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"Hmmm… are you okay? You look… really bad."
Those words.
That voice.
Soft. Simple. Honest.
It shattered me.
My mind fractured.
My body went cold.
And the heart—
that cursed, pulseless thing inside me—
trembled in fear.
Fear.
I finally felt it.
Not the fear of death.
But fear of truth.
Of the lie I might have been living.
For the first time…
the darkness didn't scare me.
It felt like home.
Finally, I whispered.
"This… is just a dream."
Yes.
That was easier.
The world I saw,
the girl,
the kindness—
all illusions.
The curse was still here.
Fate was just testing me.
Or maybe… mocking me.
Showing me the light
only to remind me
how far I had fallen from it.
"You'll never have it,"
it whispered.
"Not love.
Not peace.
Not joy."
Never.
But her voice…
still echoed.
Still reached me.
"Are you okay?"
Even in this void,
I still heard it.
And I hated that I did.
Why?
Why could I still hear her?
Why did hope still cling to me
like a dying ember refusing to fade?
And the pain—
God, the pain.
It got worse.
Worse than guilt.
Worse than regret.
It felt like I was dying.
Like Death itself
was pressing its palm to my soul,
saying:
"Feel me."
"Know me."
And I did.
I tasted it.
Death.
Not the end—
but the reality of it.
It wasn't mercy.
It wasn't silence.
It was madness.
Fire.
Emptiness dressed in finality.
And I…
loved it.
The cruelty.
The stillness.
The cold.
I smiled at it.
"Consume me," I said.
"Burn me.
Rip me apart.
Is this all you've got?"
Because what I carried inside—
the regrets,
the guilt,
the screams I buried—
they were worse than Death could ever be.
Maybe this pain was proof
that I was still real.
That I could still feel.
That I hadn't become nothing yet.
Maybe…
Even Hell turned away from me.
Maybe even Heaven trembled
at what I had become.
Maybe someone like me…
was never meant to atone.
Maybe someone like me
was only meant to endure.