It was misery. It was despair.

It was a profound, all-consuming emptiness that devoured her whole.

The small room buzzed faintly under the dim glow of a dying lightbulb, its sickly yellow hue leaking through the unbearable, filthy air. It clung to the walls, tracing every crack, every stain, as though it, too, were trapped. The air was thick with stale cigarette smoke and something sweeter—thick and cloying, like rot disguised as perfume.

Rina's life had become a carousel—spinning, endlessly in place. Round and round she went, always reaching for something new, something that could pull her away from this disgusting sweetness. And every time, she came up with nothing but decayed sugar.

Before her, amid the bottles and crumpled papers, lay the object that had drawn her here once more—the small, glossy apple.

She stared at it, her fingers twitching in anticipation, even though she already knew how it would end. How it always ended. One bite, and she would forget—slip away, transcend, and deteriorate all at once.

Her fingers drifted toward it, almost of its own accord.

It was a cycle, wasn’t it? Life, death, rebirth—contained in the span of a single bite. The inviting taste of oblivion, a fleeting sensation that promised everything yet gave nothing. Round and round, always leading back to this point. Always back to the apple.

She hadn’t been to school in days. She hadn’t seen anyone—you—in days.

When she finally wrapped her hand around the apple, the phone beside the table buzzed. A dozen missed messages, all from the same person. Who else but you?

But she couldn’t face you. Not like this. Not when the envy gnawed at her insides, not when the void inside her had grown so large that even your warmth couldn’t fill it. You, with your perfect life. You, who didn’t need a Reincarnation Apple to feel whole.

There was a low knock at the door, hesitant yet somehow firm.

Rina froze. Her heart skipped, her eyes flickered to the door, then back to the apple.

Always back to the apple.