The past few months have been an excruciating journey, a relentless loop of guilt and remorse that seems to tighten its grip around my conscience with each passing day. It's been a surreal experience, seeing her face plastered across the news, paparazzi snapshots capturing her every move as she walks towards that damned hospital. I can't help but assume and notice the frailty in her step, the weariness etched on her face during those brief moments the cameras manage to catch her. Taeyeon, the woman I once promised to protect and cherish, reduced to a mere spectacle for the world to witness her pain. It's agonizing.

Even now, as the news continues to highlight her monthly visits to the hospital for unknown reasons, I find myself scrolling through the constant top headlines on Naver and various social media platforms. There's an undeniable pang in my chest as I see her face, slightly altered yet still undeniably beautiful. There's something different about her, something I can't quite put my finger on. She looks tired, worn out by the battles she's fighting, and yet, paradoxically, there's a subtle glow that persists. It's as if the weariness she carries is laced with an inner strength, a resilience that makes her beauty shine even brighter. Although the constant guilt, a constant companion, gnaws at me like a relentless beast. I can't escape the memories of what I did, the choices I made that led us down this twisted path. It was me—my actions, my betrayal—that pushed her to this point. The woman I still love and will love, now a mere shadow of herself, battling a possible illness? … I can't fully comprehend.

Although Girls' Generation, the unbreakable bond she shares with them, stands as an impenetrable fortress in my attempts to get close to her. I see the irony in it all, the cruel twist of fate that the person who should be there for her is the one person systematically kept at arm's length. And I can't blame them. I don't deserve her. The bond she shares with her group, the support system that surrounds her, is a testament to the strength she possesses. It's a strength that, in my moments of introspection, I recognize I shattered with my own actions. As I continue to witness her struggles from a digital distance, I can't help but feel a complex blend of emotions. There's a sense of relief that she has a network of people who care for her, who shield her from the pain I brought into her life. Yet, intertwined with that relief is the stark realization of my own absence, the void I left, willingly or not. The headlines scream her pain, and the unspoken words echo louder in my mind: I don't deserve to be near her.

The dim glow of the city's lights filtered through the curtains, casting a melancholic hue in the room. The silence echoed louder than the distant sounds of the bustling city outside. Alone in my room, the weight of my choices pressed heavily on my chest. It's been months since that night, the night I shattered the promises I made to her. Taeyeon, the one person who saw through my facade and loved me despite my flaws. I let her down, and I let myself down. The walls of my room seemed to close in as I sat on the edge of my bed, drowning in the memories of my own betrayal. I used to believe I could change, that I could be the person she deserved. But the allure of the night and the temporary escape it offered became my refuge. Clubbing, partying, drugs, and smoke – the very things I vowed to abandon for her.

The rhythmic pulse of the music and the haze of the substances clouded my mind, providing a false sense of freedom from the guilt that clung to me like a shadow. Taeyeon. The mere thought of her brought a mixture of pain and longing. I could almost hear her scolding me, her words cutting through the thick smoke, reaching the recesses of my conscience. She would've unleashed a torrent of words, sharp and raw, the way only she could. She would've screamed at me, not out of anger, but out of concern and disappointment. Her words would've been a sharp slap, a wake-up call to the reality I had tried so hard to escape. I could feel the weight of her disapproval, a weight heavier than any guilt or regret I had felt before. In my mind, she stood before me, her presence so vivid it was almost tangible. "Jiyong, what are you doing?" The question hung in the air, filled with a mixture of disbelief and hurt. I couldn't bring myself to meet her eyes, knowing the pain they would reflect. Taking another swig of soju, the burn in my throat pulling me back to reality.

The city lights outside flickered like distant stars, mocking the darkness that enveloped my heart. I traced the lines of my face with trembling fingers, feeling the weight of every mistake etched into my skin. Taeyeon's face haunted my thoughts, her eyes filled with disappointment and hurt, an image I couldn't erase. I once believed I deserved happiness, that I could escape the demons that haunted me. Yet here I was, entangled in the web of self-destruction, watching as my life unraveled before me. The taste of regret lingered on my lips as I replayed the promises I made to her in my mind – promises I now knew I couldn't keep.

Now every night, like tonight, when the world quiets down, the echoes of regret become painfully loud. I find myself tangled in thoughts, wondering if it's all wrong to ache for her, to yearn for the warmth of her presence even when I'm the one who caused this mess. It's a selfish desire, I know that. I don't deserve her love or forgiveness, but damn, it hurts. It's an ache that burrows deep within but still, my heart beats, still screaming out her name in a desperate plea for forgiveness and so I've been wrestling with this song, my title track, for what felt like an eternity. My song, it's a confession, an admission of guilt, a plea for redemption. I found myself sitting at the piano, fingers hesitating over the keys. The room was suffused with the haunting melody of a song that I have been writing since that night. The song echoed the cyclical nature of my mistakes, a recurring theme that had played out in the dissonance of our relationship. 

I let out a sigh, the weight of my actions settling like a heavy cloak around my shoulders. As I chugged from my last bottle, the bitter liquid offered little solace against the bitterness of regret. The room was steeped in the fragrance of missed chances and the faint echoes of a love that had once filled these walls. The piano keys felt cool beneath my touch as I began to play, each note an echo of my heart's ache. The lyrics, born from the depths of my soul, spilled forth like an open confession. "I'm not a saint, I'm just a man," the words resonated with the honesty I could no longer deny. My fingers moved in harmony with the melody, a dance of contrition.

"So now I stand here today, asking forgiveness," I sang, the notes carrying the weight of every apology left unspoken. The piano became a vessel for my regrets, each chord a plea for understanding. As I reached the chorus, the desperation in my voice mirrored the urgency in my heart.

"And if you could just, please, give me another chance," the lyrics begged, a fervent wish that hung in