Music, at times, makes the heart ache and resonate, yet at other times, it rings out beautifully, becoming the dawn that illuminates this world.

I started composing at eighteen. It was the time when the chapter of youth opened, when the flowers of laughter bloomed fully, and when indelible wounds accumulated, page by page. The people around me tried desperately to extinguish the light of my dream.

Things like, "Composers have a low chance of success," and "Can you even earn proper money with such a useless job?"—obvious, yet pointless and empty words.

But you, unlike anyone else, embraced my shabby melodies with love. Even if the notes were clumsily drawn, even if the song was nameless.

I loved it when you listened to my songs and wrote lyrics for them. It felt like color being added to a blurry sketch.

I loved sitting beside you, with the sunset at our backs, listening to the finished song. Simply put, the melody that is you just kept lingering in my mind.

It wasn't anyone else; I loved you simply because you were you. Always, until now.