Even the Moon Does Not Know

(Epilogue: Sebastian’s Perspective)

From a very young age, every single phase of my life plan was meticulously mapped out with crystal clarity. 

My social circle was no exception.

What kind of individuals qualified to enter my inner circle as friends.

What kind of person possessed the credentials to become a romantic partner.

Meeting someone for the very first time was often enough for my intuition to render a definitive verdict.

My initial judgment regarding Sophie placed her strictly in the category of a trusted friend.

As the years of companionship accumulated, her weight as a friend steadily escalated in my heart, upgrading her to a lifelong confidant with whom I could bare my soul.

The moment I first set eyes on Vivienne, she flawlessly matched my preconceived criteria for a suitable spouse: natural temperament, gentle elegance, stunning physical appearance, alongside elite intelligence and cultivation.

Yet one fateful day, her affected, spoiled antics completely shattered my romantic illusion—and just like that, the infatuation evaporated overnight.

In truth, Sophie felt vastly closer to my foundational ideal than Vivienne ever did.

Speaking of Sophie—at some point along the way, I unexpectedly began viewing this close friend of mine as remarkably attractive. Her introverted, quiet temperament was entirely devoid of pretense or arrogance; she possessed stellar grades, exceptionally high emotional intelligence, and simply being in her company unfailingly brought a deep sense of joyful tranquility.

Unfortunately, that realization arrived with terribly inconvenient timing.

I desperately needed to find someone to extinguish this utterly shameless, socially taboo notion. Friends were strictly friends—how on earth could I ever harbor romantic feelings toward a lifelong companion?

Consequently, I deliberately sought out Clara, instantly locking onto her as my brand-new target.

Clara mirrored Vivienne in physical beauty and outward grace.

Despite her arrogant disposition, she conveniently lacked the clingy, suffocating neediness of ordinary lovers; she never pestered me for clingy hugs or endless physical affection, perfectly matching my preference for effortless, unburdened independence.

Yet, she proved profoundly unfaithful in matters of the heart.

I caught her in flagrante delicto on numerous separate occasions.

Surprisingly, I didn’t feel particularly enraged.

Discovering her betrayals didn’t even evoke half the bitter resentment I felt the day Sophie offhandedly mentioned having feelings for someone else.

Only when blindness struck did I finally realize just what kind of monstrous beast of a hypocrite I truly was.

I knew full well that Clara had bolted out of sheer cowardice, yet I willingly played along, pretending absolute ignorance as I allowed her to touch and nurse me…

I didn’t feel a shred of anger toward Clara for running away; if anything, deep down in my darkest thoughts, I felt a shameful wave of relief.

Because I fundamentally loathed the thought of her touching me or tending to my vulnerable state.

My parents had raised me since childhood to revere etiquette, manners, and moral integrity, yet here I was, trapped in a relentless cycle of physiological revulsion toward my own legal girlfriend.

I lived in a state of constant, agonizing guilt, offering material wealth as my sole form of cowardly compensation.

Even when she strayed, it paradoxically served to alleviate the crushing psychological debt weighing heavily on my chest.

I convinced myself that my mind must be fundamentally broken.

To the extent that I even booked sessions with a specialist in neurology to diagnose my condition.

The doctor advised me to attempt physical contact with other women toward whom I felt zero preexisting animosity to test my reactions.

Yet the only woman on the face of the earth toward whom I felt zero physiological aversion was Sophie.

…

I was undoubtedly a master at self-destruction.

It wasn’t until Sophie completely vanished from my universe that the agonizing truth crashed down upon me—I had fallen completely, irrevocably in love with her.

I loved her to the point where survival itself felt hollow without her.

Yet, she had grown profoundly disappointed in me, executing a clean, unannounced exit and blocking every single avenue of communication.

I spent four years wandering in a daze, until receiving word that her mother had fallen ill—at which point I knew with absolute certainty that she would inevitably return.

Sure enough, she came back.

Regrettably, she brought Arthur right along with her.

I watched every single interaction between them, burning with an incandescent rage that nearly consumed my sanity.

I finally understood the excruciating torment Sophie must have endured all those years ago.

Watching me relentlessly pursue other women while hiding her own silent anguish—just how agonizing must those years have been for her?

Sophie once told me I was an exceptionally good person, but the raw reality was that I was nothing more than a hypocritical, deeply selfish coward.

Because to spare myself the agony of unrequited longing, I unhesitatingly resorted to shameless desperation, crashing her wedding rehearsal and making a public spectacle of myself.

Choosing my own fleeting happiness over her peace of mind.

And as a direct result, she cut ties with Arthur and fled once more.

Despite everything, I knew deep down—whatever I had set my mind to conquer, I would inevitably claim by any means necessary.

Death could not part us.

Life’s journey remains long and arduous; we would simply spend the rest of our days slowly wearing each other down.