My first love, when I was 16 years old. We found happiness, yet we destroyed each other. In this relationship, I almost died; in return, I stripped away her freedom, her passions, her world. I became a criminal. I bought her a diamond ring at 18—perhaps as an atonement for my sin. These feelings are like dancing inside a wardrobe: elegant but painful, exciting but dull, horrible but curious, fake but real. It is black, yet deeply colorful. A toxic complication reduced to its absolute, minimal form.