My Sweet Tomato

prostitute

Growing up in a traditional Asian family within the confines of a traditional Asian society, I faced the baptism of oppressive and didactic education. I once yearned to escape, to break free from the suffocating life conditions and the predictable future if I failed to make a change.

In the repetitive days, I no longer recall whether the weather was favorable or not, and the state of my mind during that time remains a vague blur. Yet, I vaguely remember engaging in painting during the last moments of sobriety. Those paintings mirrored the holes in my writing and the turbulence within me at that time.

I selfishly likened my love for you to worn-out rags, gradually patched up to become the survival material supporting me through cold winter nights. What I couldn't believe was your admiration for the tattered clothes, as you said, "Your clothes are so pretty." From then on, this relationship brought me more than just inner shock.

The rags I wore transformed into a constant companion with you day and night. With you by my side, even the harsh winter wind no longer penetrated my senses with coldness, sheltered in the warmth of our connection.

In winter, a season that brings pain as the cold penetrates the body and reaches the bone gaps.

Our first encounter was accompanied by the comforting warmth of the winter sun.

Before our hearts truly met, there were ceaseless video calls day and night, a constant presence through the network in every activity. It was a dance of ambiguity, a waltz of entanglement. As I couldn't get over it, the longest call on our usual chat app reached 700-800 minutes.

I remember one night while I was here making dinner, and you had just finished work. I listened to you chatting with coworkers, friends, and acquaintances at your workplace. When someone asked why you had your headset on, you boldly declared, "On the phone with my girlfriend."

In reality, we had not formally confirmed our relationship at that time. Just in the height of ambiguity, when I heard a breakthrough in our ambiguous relationship, it was as if colossal fireworks bloomed in the depths of my heart, the deafening sound rendering me unable to hear anything else.

In the moment my soul returned to its place, I felt nervous, anxious about whether I could integrate into your world. The most direct issue was language, perhaps stemming from my language inferiority complex – inferior vocabulary, an inability to remember to cut through a mess of grammar. My inferiority complex reached a point where I was afraid to open my mouth and speak, fearing I would become a clown.

Yet, deep down, I know that everyone is just an NPC in this world.