She seemed flustered, looking at the diary she thought had been lost. The movies she liked, places she wanted to go, flowers she preferred, and future she dreamed of appeared every time she turned the page. It was something I had done for her. The words "I'm sorry" didn't come easily. The red diary lay between us like a traffic light.

I wanted to make her happy. I wanted to make her laugh. I wanted to be a good person. I thought that if I followed the words written in the diary, I would become so. But it wasn't so. I become more frightened the more I tried to be someone else. Wouldn't my real self be discovered? Wouldn't she be disappointed and leave me? I frantically hid myself and turned my head away from myself. But just as one can't put a period on a sentence without a subject, the me who had lost myself could not improve and instead wandered in the same place.

I know now. That the insufficient me who makes mistakes and fails is indeed a part of myself. That no matter how cruel and merciless things are, only by being true to myself can I take the next step forward. I stood up from my spot and she didn't try to grab me.

I went out to the street and took off my hat. As I swept my hair back, all the time I had spent trying so hard to be someone else seemed to slip through my fingers. I lifted my head and locked eyes with the me reflected in the window. A frail face, pale lips, thin shoulders. I looked endlessly shabby. I laughed. The me in the window laughed too.

TRANSLATED BY @ORIGAMYFIREFLY. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST.

Can anyone remember the moment they fell in love? Can anyone predict the moment their love will end? What could be the reason that humans don't have the ability to recognize those moments? And why was I given the power to return [restore] all of those things?

The car comes to a sudden stop, the headlights flash, crashing, bouncing, falling. I did nothing but stand defenseless in the face of all of those moments. I heard no sound and felt no sensations. It was summer, but the wind seemed cold. There was the sound of something tumbling along the street. Then there was the scent of flowers. Only then did a sense of reality come to me. The bouquet of smeraldo flowers fell from my hand. She was laying there in the middle of the street. There was blood flowing in between the strands of her hair. The dark red blood flowed along the street. I thought. If only I could turn back time.

TRANSLATED BY @ORIGAMYFIREFLY. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST.

After emerging from the blocked intersection, I drew to an abrupt stop just when I should have been gaining speed. The car behind me passed by with its horn blaring, and it seemed like someone cursed, but in the din of the city it went unheard. I saw a small flower shop in one corner of an alley to the right. It wasn't that I had stopped because I saw the store, but rather that I had discovered it after I'd drawn up short.

The store was under construction, and even as I approached the owner, who was organizing documents over to one side, I had no real expectations. I had already visited several places, and I couldn't find even one florist who knew of that flower's existence. They had only shown me flowers of a similar color. But I wasn't looking for something similar. The flowers had to be real. After hearing the name of the flower, the store's owner looked at me for a long time. He told me that although the store hadn't formally opened, he was able to arrange a delivery, and then asked, "why do you need that flower, of all flowers?"

I thought about it as I turned the handle and went back onto the street. The reason why I needed that flower. There was only one. Because I wanted to make [that person] happy. Because I wanted to make [that person] smile. Because I wanted to see [that person] enjoy it. Because I wanted to be a good person.

TRANSLATED BY @ORIGAMYFIREFLY. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST.