"Listen, as winter departs, I woke up—some year, some month. I thought, I waited, I anticipated, but the future cannot be orchestrated because of this..."

  As Xanthia sang "Accidentally in Love," the system tool she utilized quietly began to affect Dematero.

  However, Dematero remained unaware of it all.

  During the song's duration, he began to simute a fabricated future life. Yet, he could not distinguish reality from illusion. It was akin to the "brain in a vat" hypothesis—how could anyone prove they weren’t just an experiment, a brain suspended in a vat? Perhaps the real world was a simution, crafted by computers.

  At this moment, within the simuted memory—

  Dematero didn’t even finish listening to "Accidentally in Love" before abruptly standing. He addressed Xanthia coldly, “Stop bothering me. I’ve seen through life completely. From now on, I want to walk alone, needing neither love, friendship, nor anyone’s pity!”

  He believed that his solitary self was strongest, immune to hurt.

  Xanthia was indeed a kind person, but he felt undeserving of her goodness. Better to be harsh, to push her away from someone as ill-fated as himself.

  Thinking this way and acting upon it only deepened the pain in his heart.

  [Ding, pain points from Dematero!]

  Since the purpose of this memory segment was to extract as much emotional "pain" as possible, Dematero's decisions within the memory subconsciously leaned toward the worst outcomes.

  In life, it is often the choices one makes that matter most.

  As the saying goes, "Men fear entering the wrong profession, and women fear marrying the wrong man." This adage underscores the critical importance of decisions.

  After coldly walking away, Dematero returned to the cssroom, took out his notebook reserved for essays and diaries, and wrote:

  To pour too much warmth into another is to risk being left in the cold, uncherished.

  Joy, when unbridled, carves deep hollows for sorrow to fill, for only in the shadow of excessive light does darkness find its sharpest edge.

  This was the lesson he had just learned from his failed romance.

  As a creative youth who loved to express his emotions through poetry, he appeared outwardly resolute but couldn't possibly recover so quickly. The breakup became material for his art. Thus, he composed a poem:

  I hold quiet gratitude for those days untouched by you,when light still graced my shoulders—sometimes soft as a whispered breeze,sometimes fierce as a storm’s unspoken grief.

  You drifted through the years like a silent oar,skimming past the springtime bankswhere I so often lingered.A thousand times, I conjured you there,across from me, sharing a cup of morning tea,your ughter warming the fragile dawn.

  And on a winter’s sudden, tear-stained day,we glimpsed the snow’s slow descent,each fke falling within the chambers of our hearts.

  In countless dreams,my soul swayed to the rhythm of you alone.But in the years that followed,sorrow flowered in the cracks of time—a regret too tender, too bitter, to ever touch again.

  As with his previous modern poems, this one too was dedicated to the girl who had hurt him deeply.

  But he no longer eagerly wrote such poems in neat handwriting on scented pink paper, slipping them into her desk anonymously. Writing these sentimental pieces was now purely a form of catharsis, a way to heal himself.

  Over time, however, Dematero began to spiral. Studying became a distant priority; he immersed himself fully in writing, seeking validation in a different realm.

  He aimed to write for literary magazines, dreaming of becoming a renowned and wealthy writer. Surely that would grant him the sense of security he so desperately sought?

  He transformed entirely. Once cheerful, patient, and gentle, he became reclusive, brooding, and prone to mood swings. His writings grew dark, cynical, and filled with bitterness toward humanity.

  Predictably, such work was almost impossible to publish. The market no longer favored bleak, biting commentary—it wasn’t the era of social awakenings anymore. Readers wanted uplifting stories; even tragedies had to center on love.

  His cssmates began to distance themselves from him unconsciously. A gloomy cynic exuding negativity wasn’t someone anyone wanted to be around. His neurotic behavior made people uneasy.

  Most importantly, Dematero’s grades plummeted drastically. He even wrote scathing critiques of the education system during exams, as if deliberately courting failure. Wasn’t this self-sabotage?

  On one essay paper, he brazenly wrote: “Education creates elites; tyranny creates pawns!”

  Though he appeared indifferent, the pain within him never subsided. The emotional "pain points" continued to pile up.

  At Thessaloniki First High School, where grades defined worth, Dematero’s decline sealed his isotion. Good grades could excuse eccentricity or fws, but failing both academically and socially left him entirely ostracized.

  He convinced himself that solitude was empowering, but deep down, he harbored delusions that his behavior might provoke a reaction from Elena. He sank further into despair.

  Indeed, she still lingered in his heart. The influence of "lovely angel" wasn’t so easily erased—A would always be A, while B could be anyone.

  Perhaps it was because Elena had hurt him so deeply that he never moved on. He idealized her, creating a fantasy where she became a symbol of enduring light, "unwavering even through a hundred hardships."

  The immature and sentimental young man sought attention through self-pity and self-inflicted suffering. He fantasized that one day Elena might pity him and propose reconciliation, only for him to reject her with strength. It was a wish-fulfillment narrative of his own making.

  But these actions did not endear him to Elena. Instead, they only deepened her aversion. To her, he was nothing more than a delusional, pitiful figure.

  Even his closest friend, Glen, struggled with Dematero's behavior. Though Dematero repeatedly suggested ending their friendship, ciming he didn’t need anyone, Glen still cared.

  “Friends only make me weak!” Dematero would say.

  Despite this, Glen never entirely abandoned him. However, he did keep his distance. Being associated with Dematero came with its own costs—ostracism and unease. A stelr student, Glen wasn’t willing to let high school devolve into chaos for his own life.

  Yet, in the midst of this, one person remained steadfast in their care for Dematero: Xanthia.

  She was a frail girl, pale and often sickly.

  At some point, Dematero had written about her in his notebook:

  She forever lingers in my dim-lit youth,draped in the quiet elegance of a school uniform,a figure unblurred by time’s retreating tide.She was never my sun—yet there was a fleeting momentwhen an angel's light broke through and touched me.

  Passionate love comes but once,a single, unrepeatable fme.Afterward, life becomes an endless calcution of comparisons,each lesser spark weighed against the first.I’ll never love her; the hour is long gone.

  Our entrances into each other’s liveswere misaligned,a cruel precision even mathematics would mourn.