I am… why does my name matter anyway? Let me tell you about my life.
I was born into a middle-class family. My parents weren't rich enough to give me the world, but they weren't poor enough to let me starve either. I moved to a different city to study, or at least that's what I told my parents. I purposefully applied and had been admitted to a college far away. The truth is, i wanted distance. I didn't want to behave badly toward them.
I can't control my temper around my parents. Maybe it's because they treated me poorly as a child, and my brain built some kind of defense mechanism. Their presence irritates me, yet i don't earn a single thing on my own. I live on the pocket money they send me. They care about me. They love me. I'm their only child, their only hope.
But I no longer feel like I can keep going.
I want to die. Desperately. Still, if i die, all the money my parents wasted on me will have meant nothing. I can't let that happen. I've thought about selling my organs and repaying them with whatever i can before ending this miserable life.
Some people would disagree. They'd say life isn't that bad, that if I worked hard I could become something, maybe even successful. I don't feel like doing any of that. Maybe I'm just lazy. I always wanted a life where i wouldn't have to struggle, where the stage was already built for me to shine. A life where i was born into wealth and simply inherited it. That's the life i wanted.
I'm not grotesquely ugly, but I'm not attractive enough for anyone to fall for me or compliment me either. There's no happiness in my life. I'm a bad son, and I'm a bad lover too.
There was a girl I once loved. She loved me as well. Or rather, she loved the person she thought I was. I let her believe in that version of me. I acted like the kind of person she liked.
I was afraid that if she knew I wasn't her type from the beginning, she'd leave without giving me the chance to change slowly. But i was indeed becoming someone she wanted and someone who deserves her while faking it like i was from the beginning.
One day, she found out.
From that day onward, she never treated me with the same kindness or love. I tried for years. Eventually, I gave up. Now I'm not a perverted loser, but I'm not someone who can be loved either. I only wanted to be loved by her. In the end, it was all useless.
We still talk sometimes. Just texts, once in a while. I don't love her anymore. I can't love someone who looks at me with disgust, no matter how hard i tried. It isn't her fault. I can't blame her.
I see a truck coming and wish it would smash into me and give me a natural deat—
WAIT!!
IS THAT HER?
What the hell is SHE doing in the MIDDLE OF THE ROAD?
The last thing i remember is running toward her, pulling her into my arms, and holding her tightly as my vision blurred.