Last spring, I found her sitting alone on a park bench, gazing at the cherry blossoms. She looked up at the trees with a sad expression, as if she were about to burst into tears at any moment. I couldn't help but speak to her. Later, I learned that she had just broken up with her boyfriend that day and had come to this spot—where they once enjoyed hanami together—to reminisce. After we met, she always seemed lonely, and I constantly worried whether I was truly making her happy. Desperate to see her smile, I tried all sorts of things—taking trips to places we'd never been, going out into the night city—but nothing ever brought real joy to her face. Six months later, I saw her again in Shinjuku's nightlife district. But she was completely different now. Wearing flashy makeup, a revealing top exposing her breasts, and a short skirt, she walked through the streets, cheerfully chatting with men of various ages. The moment I realized that radiant smile was being given to other men, my heart went numb, and I stood frozen in place. I barely remember what happened after that, but even now, whenever I imagine her walking through the night streets, laughing and talking with strangers, my chest aches and my heart feels crushed.