You used to be a fervent believer in ritualistic moments.

Christmas had to be celebrated with exquisite Western cuisine, and every festival and holiday was made joyful with flowers—you thought that was the true meaning of living.

You would wear exaggeratedly short skirts in winter to go on dates, clearly not understanding red wine, yet still able to seriously discuss tannin’s sourness; receiving gifts you didn’t like would make you frown and get angry, and if you didn’t get what you wanted after three pouts, you’d just have a big fight; missing someone you wanted to see would bring tears to your eyes, and you’d show all your grievances on your face.

Your temper isn’t exactly good, but there’s always someone willing to forgive you. Maybe it’s youth—shallowness and arrogance are forgiven as cuteness.
You thought you would live like this forever—surrounded by love, responded to with care.
You’re just addicted to this feeling, not really greedy at all.

Sometimes I really miss the old you.
Every photo of you holds my tears from back then. It seems like you always have endless energy to love this world.

I know you can’t stay so naive forever,
but I still hope you can always stay true to yourself.