[trigger warning: violence and murder]

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Happy birthday, bub!!! You would have been 31 years old today. I am 27 now, your age when you braved it all for the last time. I’m sorry if I still cry every time it’s your birthday or it’s the 18th. But I don’t cry everyday now even if I hear your songs. That’s progress, right?

I can’t help thinking how lonely you must have felt. I still think about these things. Do you resent people around you for not caring enough? Do you feel guilty thinking that they don’t care enough? Do you hate yourself for having bad thoughts? Do you hate yourself for thinking bad of others? Do you think bad of others? It must have been too much. Do you regret doing it?

I just want to cry all day, bub. I miss you. Isn’t it weird to miss you this much when I wasn’t even an active fan when the news broke? Did I feel consoled knowing that I wasn’t the only one suffering then? Or I feel too bad because I lived and you didn’t? I am a nobody, bub. You meant the world to many people. Do I feel undeserving to be living right now? That doesn’t make sense, right? It’s not my fault. It’s no one else’s fault, but you should have lived. You should have lived a long and happy life because that’s what you deserve. But I’m not taking it against you. I know how it feels. Actually, no. Maybe I don’t. I just know what it’s like to feel really lonely. 2017 was really hard. Wasn’t it? I still cry thinking about that year. Nah, even the years before that. It was hard. It’s still hard. Despite the better days, it’s still hard. Sometimes, I miss the comfort of sadness. But there are days that I feel too positive that it feels like I don’t know what I’m really feeling anymore. I’m so confused of my emotions and moods.

Last night, I dreamt of killing people. I can’t remember the details, but I think I was told that we will be murdered, so I killed them instead—one by one, as they entered our house. This very house. It felt so real; the way I held the knife in my hand, the satisfying feeling of feeling the knife buried in the human’s body and the mortifying feeling of it as I pulled it out. I can’t explain it well. It’s also scary. I remember there was a funeral after. There were lots of people. They didn’t seem to be grieving. They all seem relieved. There was a speech, too. I don’t know who was talking or what they were talking about. But then I heard someone said “xxenna will carry it for the rest of her life.” And that’s when I felt my legs collapse. I fell to the floor and started crying. That’s when I woke up. I woke up crying again. I don’t know what it means.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m doing mentally okay, but there will still be moments like this that I question myself if I’m really getting better. Even if I say that healing isn’t linear, it’s still hard to grasp. It’s so tiring to be okay one minute and then just break again the next.

It was tiring, wasn’t it? You must have been so tired, bub.

Maybe I should really start writing that yoonjin au I have in mind. I need to fix the plot and get on with it. I want to write something about the pain, and perhaps the anger too. Please give me the strength to start on it.

But first, please give me the strength to get through today.

I really don’t feel like doing anything.

I probably would go back to sleep after writing this. It’s 5:30 in the morning.

I miss you.

Happy birthday.

You did well.

You lived well.

Thank you for reading! 🤎
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