My name is Huang Zitao, and I suppose that was the story of my friend—and his lover; and their downfall.

Suicide isn’t supposed to be romanticised, mind. After all, it’s a serious issue. But there is a definite romantic chemistry between them—they’d live and die for another. But I guess they were both weak—they pulled each other down. In the end, it didn’t work out and they both fall into a deeper pit; darker when they’ve started originally—but their love for each other is still there; intact, even through many countless nights sleeping with other men, abusive fathers, pushing in plungers and emotional impact.

I suppose I was, a lot, very useless in their storybook. I was only their narrator—but they write their own little lives, and I just watch what happens next. Side-characters aren’t supposed to meddle with protagonists—so what do I do? I just… sit there and watch, I guess. Sometimes I come in and help. But in the end; I’m not the one doing drugs, I’m not the one for money—but I don’t get hit in the eye every night and get lashed across the back with a leather belt.

And I suppose—I was just Huang Zitao in their story. I wasn’t able to save them—because the complex was too complicated for me to understand; because I’ve never done any of those things before.

Many of you readers are Huang Zitao (the supporter). But many of you can be Byun Baekhyun (the dying), Park Chanyeol (the affected), and the Wu Yifan (the biased). You really don’t know about people—you only know about you. But in the end, it’s always too late to realise that the Byun Baekhyun in the story is dying, and the Park Chanyeol is much too tainted to even be able to