The Moment of Touching a Rose

I've already set you free. So why are you weeping now? For the old days? For me? Or for the moments we shared together? Or is it that you're not as well as you thought you'd be—the happiness you hoped for when you pushed me away?

You didn't want to be with me, so I stepped aside. Your happiness is all that matters to me. I love you, and because I do, I accepted leaving you, even though it broke my heart, all for your sake.

You were sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Everything in your life seemed to be crumbling, one piece at a time. When I kept hearing that it was my fault, I finally had to ask myself: why am I insisting on staying when all I do is make you miserable? If I truly love you, can this be right? Love means putting someone else's wellbeing first, doesn't it?

So I left. But what is this? Your sorrow hasn't lessened one bit! It only grows with each passing day! I cannot bear to see you suffer. My darling, please don't grieve. I understand now—I was never the cause of your pain. Because you couldn't find what was truly wrong, you pushed me away so completely! Couldn't you have waited a little longer? Couldn't you have thought about it more?

Don't call me like this anymore. I won't come back, no matter what. It will pain me to live ignoring your calls, but I will find the strength to endure it. I don't go back to those who leave me. Not even if they clutch my feet, not even if they weep themselves to death for me. I cannot simply return because I'm wanted—I don't deserve to be loved by someone who discards my love. This isn't pride talking; this is the truth. I've kept silent about these things all this time, but today it feels right to say them.

Those who love unrequited have great patience, because even knowing they'll gain nothing in the end, they love anyway—they don't keep accounts of profit and loss. One-sided love offers the most opportunity for sacrifice. Thinking of you makes me an old-fashioned soul, someone stuck in the past—that's what old-fashioned people do, they think deeply about others. So when I imagine you crying, I grow terribly restless; I think, forget it all, let me just run back to you! But the very next moment, I'm afraid again: if you reject me once more, I won't have any strength left to survive it.

Do you remember? You once told me my heart was like a rose—you had to touch it so carefully! I used to smile silently at that. There was so much I could have said then, if only I'd understood. But now I think: why didn't you understand then, that if you want to touch a rose, you must be ready to bear the prick of its thorns?