The snow that reached the ocean floor whispered,

“It feels like a miracle.”

The sea — dark, endless, and clear — said,

“No.”

“Fate.”

“Give me just five minutes.”

“I was thinking… if five minutes could comfort you,
then whenever I have time, I’ll come and say good night.”

“Won’t you get tired of talking so much?”

“It’s okay. You can say whatever you want.”

“Doesn’t this feel like a miracle?”

“That’s not a miracle.”

“Don’t deny it.”

“That’s fate.”

“That’s too beautiful.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“There’s no guarantee tomorrow will come.”

“You’ve really been through a lot.”

“Alright. Practice before sleep.”

“That would just become dependence.”

“‘You’ve really been through a lot.’”

“No.”

“Is that just for now?”

“Just for now.”

“Okay.”

…

“I won’t change. Everything is alright.”

We were already full of love,
and still, we couldn’t say it.

There was something
we needed to keep hidden—
more than words of love.

That is why this is
the most painful,
and the most tender record.