89. Someone give me an affirmation that it is a lie.

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89. Someone give me an affirmation that it is a lie.

 Marin’s voice fell like a soft murmur, enveloping her sense in a soothing way. Slowly, a hand was caressing her back like comforting a child to sleep. The fact that she found warmth in Marin’s body temperature, which was probably lower than average, must mean that Violette herself was that cold. The temperature outside was actually on the rise but her inside was as frozen as ice.

 Violette pressed her forehead against Marin’s shoulder, which was slightly higher than her, and tried to think of a way to verbalize the thoughts she was having. But every time she opened her mouth, all that came out was empty air.

She felt that if she could verbalise her thoughts, it would be a raging storm.

“Mari, Marin …… I, I, am fine.”

 Her tongue was tangled and she couldn’t string sentences together properly. Something exploded in her head, which made her unable to stand still without clinging to someone. Her body acted on her emotions, but her mind couldn’t understand what to do next.

 Should she cry and scream? Should she explain in her own incomprehensible way and ask for some advice? Should she just vent her feelings and ask for affirmation?

 Violette was sure that the past of her would have chosen the third option. She always concluded that she was the heroine of a tragedic romance, and if anyone even nod at her, it meant they were sympathizing her. Sympathy, pity, whatever, she just needed something to remind herself that she was not a bad person.

 But now. She herself couldn’t understand what she want.

“Violette-sama, please calm down. It’s okay, take your time…”

“No, no, no, not like this. ……”

 Marin tried to quiet Violette, who was completely distraught as her gaze was staring at particularly nothing.

 Her brain was boiling hot, and even the depths of her eyes were eroding. In the boiling temperature, only her hands and heart were getting colder and colder. Hot and cold, cold and hot. Emotion and reason diverged. Two things that should be connected with the heart were screaming in the opposite direction.

 It would have been better if one of them was wrong. If only one of them had been wrong, she could have discarded it, or she could have separated it from the other. But unfortunately, both were true feelings, and that’s why she couldn’t hold on to them.

(I can’t believe I fell in love with Yulan.)

 She thought it was impossible, that it was just a whim, that it was all an illusion created by her possessive desire.

 Please, someone, deny these thoughts.

It’s wrong, this is all wrong.

 Begging, starving, and thirsting for love was supposed to be the only way to fall in love. In fact, every love story that had piled up around Violette had ended tragically in that way.

 She finally understood that her feelings for Claudia were different from love. What Violette sought was a stairway to happiness behind Claudia, and maybe she never wanted to be truly loved by him. She actually wanted to be loved by numerous people, not just one, not just Claudia. It didn’t matter who it was, it didn’t matter what form it took, it didn’t matter if it was distorted or unholy, as long as the feelings for Violette were there, she could swallow their love in one go. If the opposite of love was indifference, then all interest can be converted into love. That was how much she was thirsty for love.

 The only love Violette had ever known was dark and deep, like lead, heavy to the end. A desire to nourish the tears of those around her and make them bloom, as if she(Violette’s mother) could spend her daughter’s or even her own life for the sake of only one person. The face of a woman shining with greed, the face of a mother condensing disappointment, despair, hatred, and disgust, the face of a wife lying on the floor and seeking her husband’s warmth in a whimper. For Violette, Belle Rose was the symbol of love.

“No, I don’t want to………, I don’t want to…”

 It began with her mother’s face, soaked in pleasure, as she cupped Violette’s cheeks in her hands and called her father’s name in rapture. Fortunately or unfortunately, she couldn’t remember those words, or even the ego to claim that she was Violette at that time. The only thing she could still remember was the fear in her mother’s glistening, bloodshot eyes.

 Her education, which began soon after that, was in some ways strict and in some ways lenient. She was terribly precise in following the same path as her father, but as a daughter, she didn’t care how much she flunked. Her mother was always lenient if she ran around outside or climbed a tree, as long as she was careful not to get hurt or sunburned. She would never feel uncomfortable with her daughter acting like a boy. Rather, she was the kind of person who would feel uncomfortable with her daughter becoming a woman, and would discard her as a fake.

 For her mother, Violette was a sacrifice for love. No, she gave birth to her so that she could be a sacrifice. Unfortunately, her father did not want a sacrifice, and cruelly, Violette had more value than a sacrifice. And the result was a fake, a failed imitation of her father. A crazy woman’s obsession, all for the sake of her one true love.

 So the feelings she have now cannot be love.

 It shouldn’t be love, but it was.

“Why am I so happy ……?”

 Please, someone say, that the feeling that makes you want to cherish it so much, that makes you cry with preciousness, can’t possibly be love.


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