Chapter 462 If Love Is A Failed Sentence
Fitran sat in the abandoned library in the old city of Darnel, a place filled with the damp aroma of old books, as if every shelf held a thousand secrets and forgotten memories. The sound of the wind rustled through the cracked windows, creating a mournful melody that added to the eerie atmosphere. Dusty tables, toppled bookshelves, and abandoned scrolls reinforced the sense of solitude. Shadows moved gently, dancing on the faded walls, creating an illusion of lost life. Yet one blank sheet remained—one untouched page, unmarked by time or will.
There she sat. Her fingers touched the pen, feeling the roughness of the cold metal tip. And in her heart, one desire that had never been given form:
"I want to write love." "As a sentence. Not as magic. Not as a name. But as a testimony."
First Sentence
"I love you because you give me the world."
The ink dried. But the paper... cracked. A fine tear at its corner suggested that the paper too felt burdened by unexpressed emotions. The corner burned slowly, and the letters turned to ash. The system of reality rejected it.
In the corner of the room, Beelzebub watched with an unreadable expression, as if she understood every nuance of Fitran's unease. Their relationship was not merely that of teacher and student—there was another dimension enveloping them, a distance unbridged by words.
"Too absolute," she murmured. "Such a sentence... cannot endure in a changing world."
Second Sentence
"I love you, even though you never loved me."
This time, the paper rejected the ink. A lump of emptiness filled the atmosphere, and the sound of the wind rolling in from the open window added to the anxiety in Fitran's chest. She poured the letters back into the pen, refusing to be absorbed by the paper.