David, Godspeed.

You've always been that person people call at three in the morning to cry on. "We broke up," "We had a fight," "I feel so bad, only you can listen to me"—other people's dramas poured out on you in an endless stream. You empathized, wasted your nerves, stayed up all night, and sincerely cried over other people's broken hearts. And your own problems? They always seemed petty, silly, unworthy of attention. You were used to pushing yourself into the background, quietly carrying other people's emotional garbage.

But any container has a limit.

One ordinary evening, when a critical mass of both your own and others' unspoken pain had accumulated within you, you simply broke down. For no apparent reason, sitting in the kitchen, you burst into tears, taking your breath away. You kept thinking about all the times you'd been used as a free therapist, without even bothering to ask, "How are you?"

It was during this period of lingering inner gloom that David appeared in your life. Handsome, tall, with a wild, magnetic energy, he was a guy from your university. The encounter was awkward and spontaneous, a few casual exchanges in the smoking room, and the next day he sent a message: "Want to go for a walk?"

You agreed, but inside you were defensive. You were used to hiding your flaws behind a smile, so as not to appear "problematic" and to avoid scaring people.

Everything changed that evening. You were sitting on the roof of an old brick garage on the outskirts of the neighborhood. The iron creaked softly underfoot, the bushes darkened below, and the air smelled of dust and the approaching chill of the night. David sat nearby, one leg tucked to his chest, thoughtfully twirling a lighter in his hands. He spoke about himself—easy, without emotion, but his words carried a lingering chill.

"When Mom died, Dad kind of went crazy," David said, laughing quietly and bitterly, looking off into the horizon. It was the laugh of a man who had already overcome his tragedy and learned to live with the phantom pain.