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まるで、偉大な物語の中にでも
→The ones that really mattered.
迷い込んだような気分です。
→Full of darkness and danger they were.
闇や危険が一杯に詰まっていて
→And sometimes you didn't want to know the end...
その結末を知りたいとは思いません。
→...because how could the end be happy?
幸せに終わる確信がないから。
→How could the world go back to the way it was...
こんな酷いことばかり起きた後で
→when so much bad had happened?
どうやって世界を元通りに戻せるんでしょう？
→But in the end, it's only a passing thing...
でも、夜の後で必ず朝が来るように
→...this shadow.
どんな暗い闇も
→Even darkness must pass.
永遠に続くことはないんです。
→A new day will come.
新しい日がやって来ます。
→And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer.
太陽は、前にも増して明るく輝くでしょう。
→Those were the stories that stayed with you...
それが人の心に残るような
→...that meant something.
偉大な物語です。
→Even if you were too smallto understand why.
子供の時読んで理由が分からなくても
→But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand.
今ならフロド様。
→I know now.
なぜ心に残ったのかよく分かります。
→Folk in those stories...
登場人物たちは
→...had lots of chances of turning back, only didn't.
重荷を捨て、引き返す機会はあったのに帰らなかった。
→They kept going...
信念を持って
→...because they were holding on to something.
道を歩き続けたんです。
命をかけて戦うに足る尊いものが
私にはあるのです。
あなたはどうですか？
272
Ася
Long time no see~
A small life update: I’m now a penetration engineer, and honestly, I’m really happy about it.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking—I wish you could know the fuller version of me.
I wish you had known me at five.
Back then, I was pure sunshine. Loud joy, obvious eagerness to be seen. I greeted every neighbor with a sweet smile, volunteered to recite poems and dance during holidays without being asked.
Now, I need a long mental warm-up just to speak in public.
I wish you had known me at fourteen.
I was sharp-edged, almost feral. I argued with my math teacher over a solution, red-faced and stubborn, because I believed truth mattered more than keeping the peace.
Now, before I disagree, I take several careful turns in my head.
I wish you had known me at eighteen.
The girl who replayed the same song at midnight, filled notebooks with cryptic words, and believed—without needing reasons—in love. Her joy and sorrow were both dramatic, ceremonial.
Not like now, where I quietly organize my emotions and keep them neat.
It’s not that I dislike who I am today.
On the contrary, I really do like myself now.
But every once in a while—just once in a while—I miss those versions of me: the lively one, the sharp one, the melancholic one.
When I meet someone I truly click with, I can’t help thinking:
If only we had met earlier. Then we could have walked alongside each other for much longer.
You would’ve seen that the light in my eyes isn’t just politeness—it also carries something untamed.
You would know that my brightness doesn’t come only from experience, but from an unpolished sincerity.
You would understand how much past passion is hidden inside my gentleness.
And one more thing—I hate goodbyes.
I hate that everyone leaves carrying only a fragment of me.
It makes me feel like a book taken apart: one chapter with you, another with someone else, never whole.
I don’t want to be a book in pieces.
See? I’m greedy.
With new friends, I wish they could know me sooner.
With old friends, I wish they would never leave.
I know, though, that none of those versions of me ever disappeared.
They all live inside who I am now.
The courage of my five-year-old self still lets me meet the world with sincerity.
The sharpness of fourteen gives me boundaries beneath my softness.
The sensitivity of eighteen allows me to feel how complex—and fascinating—humans are.
Like rain from different seasons flowing into the same river:
the liveliness of early spring,
the intensity of midsummer,
the calm of late autumn—
all of it becomes the river in the end.
So I tell myself this:
Maybe new friends can glimpse my past through who I am now.
Maybe old friends can imagine my future through who I am now.
And the friends I’ve lost along the way—
perhaps they’re living happily in parallel timelines, carrying one version of me with them.
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