Winter 49, X008

  Dear Diary,

  I have a confession to make: I’m not actually average height. I’m shorter than I’d like to admit.

  But that’s not even the worst part. WHY DO I STILL LOOK LIKE THIS?? I thought by the time I turned eighteen, I’d finally grow into my looks, but here I am, still looking like I’m a teenager! I look like people who are fourteen!! It’s so frustrating. All my friends have matured—they look like proper adults—while I’m stuck here, seemingly frozen in time. It’s like I’m aging slower than everyone else, and I can’t help but feel out of place.

  And then there’s the way I look… I don’t even know how to describe it, but people say I look feminine. They tell me I look “beautiful” instead of “handsome,” and my long hair definitely doesn’t help. My father asked me not to cut it, though. When I asked why, he explained in an almost heartbroken voice that it’s tied to some tradition of my mother’s. Still, he said he wouldn’t complain if I decided to cut it, especially if it ever felt like a burden or got in my way.

  I miss the days when I was the tallest among my friends, even if it was only by a little. Let me have this moment, okay? I know it’s silly, but it’s one of the few things I can hold onto. I think I am becoming crazy as I am beginning to argue with myself like this.

  Now that I mention it, maybe I really am aging slower. I’ve noticed that elderly people often have fully gray hair, while younger individuals tend to have more vibrant, colorful hair. When I try to recall memories from the past, I remember my father used to have dark brown hair. But now, it’s mostly gray.

  I also remember that we used to move around a lot, living in different places over the years. My father worked various jobs before settling into what he does now.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  If I rack my brain hard enough, I believe his first job when I was very young was as a craftsman. He made something—I can’t quite remember what, but it was dangerous.

  If my memory serves me right, one day when my father was away, I played around his workplace and tripped over something.

  This caused a massive explosion in our house. When my father returned, I remember him holding me in his arms. I felt so incredibly sleepy that I closed my eyes, but something bright and persistent kept me awake, even through my closed eyelids. After a while, I began to feel better. Then my father scold me so harshly for what I did. We also ended up having to move to a new house.

  I think this became my first memory because of how intense it all was.

  Our new home was close to a forest. The house was abandoned, or at least it seemed that way. I remember my father reading a note aloud that said anyone was free to live there as long as they maintained it and didn’t let it fall into complete ruin. The house was somewhat intact but clearly hadn’t been cared for recently. My father did some repairs, and soon it was as good as new.

  After that, my father tried his hand at something he called tattooing—or maybe it was just painting, since it wasn’t permanent. What fascinated me most was that it glowed, which captivated my younger self. He often showed me his work, asking for my opinion or just letting me watch. One day, I asked him to do it on me. He worked quickly, almost as if he had been preparing for this moment. He painted something on my abdomen, and when he finished, it glowed brightly before disappearing. I was surprised when it disappeared quicker than his previous ones, but he explained it was a new technique, it’s for a party trick.

  Eventually, my father stopped doing it. He said it wasn’t bringing in any clients, so he turned to foraging in the forest instead. I think I remember all of this so vividly because of those glowing “party tricks” of his.

  Finally, when he had saved enough money, we moved to this house—the one where I am now, writing this diary. When I asked my father about all of this, he said he didn’t know what I was talking about.

  …Am I actually crazy? Did I make all of this up? But even if I did, I still want to write it all down.

  End.