Prologue

6 months ago, Sakuraba household room.

I haven't left my room in three days, all I do is stare at my hands with my lifeless eyes all day.

I don't want to eat, I don't want to walk, I don't want to go out, I don't want to talk to anyone, breathing exhausts me, the sun blinds me, speaking makes me want to vomit.

The only thing I hear occasionally are my father's footsteps walking on the first floor or stepping up the stairs, walking down the hallway and staying, talking to me in front of my room.

Really... I'm tired.

Even though I've been through so much lately, I haven't shed a single tear, lack of sadness? I don't think so, I've opened the doors to an emotional crisis of titanic proportions for the first time in my life, lack of time? I don't think so, I've had more free time in the past few days than my entire high school life combined.

I just... don't think it should be me who cries.

I don't have that right.

Of the many things that pass through my mind, back and forth, here and there, I always end up exactly at the same question I've asked myself over and over again.

Can we truly know a person in their entirety?

A crumpled letter, moistened by the sweat of my hands, and looking old, though it had been written recently, was in my hand, clenched tightly, as if letting go, it would run away.

Only one line of what was written on it remained in sight.

With a flawed, rough handwriting, but exuding the hatred, resentment, and anger with which it was written.

"I hate you... I always have... I never had the courage to tell you these words to your face, what a shame..."

There, the visible line in my hands was cut off.

Lying down, hand outstretched, and a single eye looking towards that letter, there I was, waiting like a bag waiting for the wind to start wandering aimlessly.

Personally, in my 17 years of life, I have come to a conclusion, somewhat forcibly.

Simply... it's not possible, it's impossible.

The world we see and think is real is strongly influenced by our own view of it, depending on who you are, where you live, what you do, what you think, to come to the only thing we can do regarding another person's psyche, a conclusion.

The same goes for the image we believe we project.

After all, it's easier to think that we are funny in the eyes of others if we ourselves think we are, don't you think?

And it's even easier to think something about a person if we predispose that assumption in the beginning, that is, we can only see from the other person what they allow us to see, and unless you are that specific person, you couldn't know what that person really thinks about you unless you go through a critical or very specific situation that triggers their instincts in an unexpected way.

I hate it, I detest it, I abhor it... it's frustrating, tiresome, and disgusting.

It's a bit... complicated, too much.

If you tell a joke, and someone laughs, you can only assume they found it funny by a laugh, which, valid as true, either by inertia or a bond of trust.

We are... bound regarding the true thoughts of the other people around us.

Maybe if I had stepped out of my bubble a bit more, if I had talked more, if I had really tried to understand the people around me a bit more... things wouldn't have turned out so fatalistically.

All I did was watch a painful and slow fall, my furtive attempts to do something only made things worse, only caused more harm... only dug a deeper hole...

But after all... isn't that a bit unfair?

Even if I went back in time, along with my current knowledge, could I avoid that string of misfortunes that happened in just weeks?

It had been brewing... for months, perhaps years.

At what point did everything go so wrong?

The path that was once visible became complicated, something like looking back and thinking 'what good memories' was difficult for me now, because after all... was that really good to do? It came to my mind...

At what point... did life get so complicated?

I twisted in my bed out of helplessness, got up for a moment and placed on my bedside table, next to my bed, the letter, throwing myself back onto my bed, I covered myself with a thick blanket within my reach.

"I think... I better sleep," I said.

Life is a bit unfair, and we're very foolish.

I think... there's nothing to be done.

Yes, we can't do anything...

Just assume and think we're right."