And now I have to find 2 words to say to you.

The words I found already existed. I didn't make any up on my own. That's not fair to you.

I want to find something that'll be only for you.

Something that's not suitable for everyone.

You weren't like anyone else.

I don't want to dress you up in clothes that have been already worn. With worn out elbows and knees, it would be as if I was dressing you up with flaws, as if I was betraying the fact that at least I had seen you cry.

Why should I tell them? They're dying to find out that you were the same as them, that you weren't something different.

I'm not going to let them remember you the way they want. If it doesn't hurt them every time, if it doesn't kill them that they didn't get to know you, that they weren't to you, what I was, that they will never be to me what you were, then, let them not remember you at all.

When I was leaving, I encountered 2 children on the street. One, looked like you did in that picture with your parents on some beach, that you didn't remember.

And they asked me, "What was he to you?"

Imagine that! They asked me, what you were to me?

I told them that you were my name.

You were my name.

I told them that you were my name.

You were my name.

From now on, they can call me whatever they want.