[WLW] [ENGLISH] I am not Caroline. Caroline is dead. But grief is a selfish, gaping thing. To everyone else, Caroline is alive, and Celestine is the one in the dirt. I was fine surrendering to the earth. Until that 2:00 AM smoke break where everything in the world was bleeding orange-the streetlamp, the bench, the flickering spark of almost-but-never-red between us. Until a girl with trembling hands, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and greedy, moon-like eyes looked right through the grave I had dug for myself. She introduced herself as Romance. "Romance. As in, the death of." A gaunt, half-dead stranger who starved the feral hunger out of her own eyes just to teach me how to crave the world again. I should have known right then and there. I should have known better than to build cathedrals out of cigarette smoke. I should have known better than to beg a deaf universe for a thirty-second day in December, or trust the moon to stay still when the sun is ruthlessly rising. She asked me to wilt with her. So why am I the one left breathing, forced to bloom in a world where Romance is dead?