It’s been a year now. I’m sixteen, and I still wonder why. Why do my shoulders never relax? Why does my chest feel heavy despite my athletic body? Why does the weight never leave me? I don’t understand my suffering. I don’t understand why that incident happened at all.

It was my debut day—my fifteenth birthday. The company chose that night for my first performance. The stadium was small, the smallest in the country, but the blue lights I had chosen made it feel like my own space. Blue meant escape from loneliness, a promise of protection for my fans, though sometimes the colour felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

Then I saw him—a cute guy in the front row—just for a moment. That’s when it happened. In the middle of my midnight debut concert, something bloomed on my forehead, glowing purple like a cursed jewel. My chest tightened, my breath caught, and a stabbing pain stole my attention from the boy. I saw the disgust in the audience’s eyes.

I fought to keep performing, to hide the pain, to keep my hands from covering it. Backstage, my CEO demanded answers, but I had none. A mysterious man visited him later, and the gossip vanished overnight. From then on, my blue turned to purple—matching the glow of the mark I now carried. That was the day I realised I was alone, that I’d already lost the fight.

I’ve tried to get rid of it, but the doctors warned me—touch it and I’ll die. It’s a curse I can’t escape. I don’t want to die, but I can’t live like this either. My fans adore me, yet call me a monster. Why can’t they accept me as I am? Sometimes, when I see my reflection in the lake, I feel strangely drawn to it, like I’m forgetting something important.

Nights are the worst. I wake choking, haunted by smoke and the sense that I’m being watched. Maybe I’m cursed—that’s why I live alone in the forest. I tell myself it’s because I belong here, but the truth is, I had no money for the city since I was five. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t even know if they’re alive.

Today’s concert ended without disaster—at least, nothing the company couldn’t cover. I didn’t linger for fans or media. I just drove. The hum of the engine, the scent of pine from the forest, the cool air through the windows—small things that feel like cleansing.

But something felt different. The mark pulsed, alive, as though it was calling to someone—or reacting to them. It’s only happened twice: at my debut and now. Was it loneliness? Fear? Or that strange urge to give myself completely, just to feel the warmth of another heart? The thought left a bittersweet taste, and as quickly as it came, it vanished when the glow faded backstage.

I drove on into the forest. Fame had brought me solitude, not belonging. My home here is the only place I can be myself, though even here the silence can be suffocating. The questions and stares follow me in my mind: Do they think I’m hiding something? Do they think I’m not human?

The weight in my chest builds until it’s physical—hands shaking on stage, breath catching when I try to speak. “I’m not a monster!” I yell, but my voice feels empty. “I’m not…” I whisper again, tears blurring the road as I near my treehouse.

There’s no family waiting. The city hunts me with its noise, but the forest traps me with its silence. I crave voices, someone to ask how my day was. Even the lake in front of my home seems to hold a quiet sorrow, its calm surface betraying something wrong beneath.

Without thinking, I walked toward the cliff. The sky was a soft, promising blue—my blue—but I didn’t notice the flowers or the squirrel that waits for me each day. Painting held no appeal; even that joy had slipped away.

When I came to, I was at the cliff’s edge. Mystery Lake stretched below, ready to swallow me whole. From a distance, my treehouse was just a lonely trunk, hiding me from the world. The forest seemed to plead with me to stay, the sky bleeding into an ominous red. For a moment, I felt wanted. But it wasn’t enough.

“I don’t even have a reason to hold on,” I panted, a tear escaping. I’ve trained myself to keep everything inside, but once in a while, a tear slips through. “Why can’t this world accept me as I am?” My voice cracked under the weight of it all.

Overwhelmed, I heard a whisper of the wind, “Will it be over if you jump?”

Someone just scolded me—care, rage, and disappointment all tangled in that voice. My expression shifted instantly.

It wasn’t a particularly deep voice, but it was unmistakably a guy. I never expected to meet anyone here. Since my parents died, I’ve had no friends, and no one can ever seem to find this place. I don’t know why.

Who is he? When did he discover this place? And how did he get inside? Questions clouded my mind, but excitement pushed them aside. I turned quickly, desperate to see who had spoken.