When work is just finishing up, I am grabbed by two officers. I want to protest—my mouth is already open and ready to shout—but I catch myself just in time and close it up so I won't get into more trouble than I'm already in.

I go with the officers with no resistance, pretending like I'm fine with everything they do even though I want to scream Put me down! right at their neutral faces.

We go across the open lawn in the front of the camp and past the eating area to a large metal building with steel doors. It also has a fence, but this one has no low hum of electricity and there is a door with a lock. The officer on my right takes a dark key from his ring of keys and inserts it into the lock, and the door swings open.

I am taken through several corridors before the officers swing open a door on the left and usher me in. There I see an official that is definitely top-ranking—there are dozens of medals covering his jacket. Then I see his face, shadowed underneath the hat upon his head. It bears a startling resemblance to the girl. The only things he doesn't have are the clear blue eyes. Are you her father? I want to ask.

Fortunately, I get the answer soon enough. Or unfortunately; I'm not really sure.

He steps to the side, revealing a pile of paper planes, each one coated with heartfelt words. The exact pile of planes that I kept under my cot.

I open up my mouth to yell Give it back!, but he stops me. "You know exactly what you're doing here, don't you? WHY ARE YOU MEETING HER?"

He's not even attempting to hold back his anger, and I shrink back. I'm ashamed of being caught, but I'm not ashamed of spending time with her. Instead, I am getting defensive about it. But responding will do me no good, so I stay silent. Better to get kicked around and decided that I'm scum that doesn't deserve attention than being sentenced to death.

My silence only seems to infuriate him more, but I still stay quiet. I can see his face growing redder. "Answer me, swine!" he shouts at me. "Why do you have to make her worse?"

I'm so confused by this my silence is no longer forced. Worse? Why would I ever make her worse purposely? I'd never do that! I'd never make her worse? How would I even do that? I can't even touch her!

He decides that he's not getting anything out of me, and proceeds to open up the letter that's stacked at the top of the pile. "What is this, exactly?" he murmurs.

Then he's suddenly enraged, his eyes scanning the page with growing hate. "What did you do?" he asks me. I lower my eyes to the ground, while he keeps on yelling. "You manipulated her. You made her think that you loved her, and that she loved you. You idiot. You will suffer. I will make you suffer. You are killing my little girl. Killing her! You won't let her live peacefully. You will not live peacefully any longer."

I think about her, about the day she told me that she was leaving. I thought about her silky blonde hair and her eyes reflecting the hopeful sky. I keep silent. I haven't been living peacefully for two months now. How could you possibly make it worse? Out of all the flowers in the field, the prettiest one was the one that had to go. I almost lost hope that day. The only thing keeping me going now is that maybe, one day, she'll come back. I will be waiting for her that day. I will make it to the fence that day, and I will welcome her with open arms. The first days without her were the worst I've experienced.

You can't make it worse. I'm already living in my own Hell.

He is shaking with rage now. "How dare you make my daughter write this!" he yells. "How dare you!"

He rips up the paper, a satisfied grin on his face. "How do you like that, swine?" he asks. "Your precious letters are now shredded. You like it now?" he sneers, and all the officers in the room laugh right along with him.

No. Please. Don't do this. Those are the only things that I have left.

I'm trying so hard not to attack him right here, my mouth is taking in deep breath after deep breath and my arms tightening underneath the officers's iron hold.

But then he takes his arm and throws the shredded bits of paper right at me. I'm shaking so hard now, I can barely take in a breath. You knew this was coming, I tell myself. You knew you were in for this. How could you break society's unspoken rule so many times and think that you weren't going to come to harm?

You expected this.

And suddenly I'm arguing with myself, my will of safety and desire warring inside. I just didn't expect it to hurt this much.

I can't stand it anymore. I try my absolute hardest to keep myself under control, to not lash out at these officers who are intent on torturing me.

Until the paper floats in front of me, and one sentence shows itself:

I love you.

And suddenly I can't restrain myself. I love you too, I think, too late. I will always be waiting for you. If there's the whole world standing in my way, I will fight past every last one to get to you.

I love you so very much.

I can't even try to hold myself back. She's there, I think. This guy is why I can't get to her. He's making her worse.

My hands are balled into fists, and I have broken free of the officers that held me. My mouth is yelling out words I can't understand, but I know the meaning: Why are you being so cruel? Why are you making her worse? You're a monster, blaming others for your mistakes.

I punch him several times, but soon enough two arms wrap themselves around mine and pull me back. I've made several wounds upon his face. I smile while my body is whipped several times. I hear words that don't make any sense. Something about daring to hit the guy?

As I'm carried out of the room, I hear the word "execution."

No. I want to plead, but at the same time, I don't care. I want to say, Hey! No, don't kill me. I still have things I want to do. Let me live a little longer. But I don't regret my actions.

I don't regret anything.

I work the next day, but I don't get any rations. "Don't give rations to 387," I hear. "He's not gonna live till tomorrow."

I don't care when the officers come in their dark green uniforms to take me away. They take me to the building that I went through when I first came here years ago and they direct me the side that I wasn't sent to the first time.

We all know what that side is.

Death.

But somehow, I'm not scared of it.

I let myself to be lead to a small room. There's nothing in it, only walls and a small window sealed tightly. I hear the door shut and the lock turn.

Now I first realize, fully realize, what I'm doing here. You're here to die. I'm here to die. This is when my life is over, and I'll never see anyone ever again.

I'm here to die.

I want to argue now. Don't leave me here! Let me go! Open up that door! I don't want to die! There's so much more I wanted to do. Don't let me leave here with unfinished business!

Just let me live. Just a little bit longer.

Please?

I feel it coming now. Poison, filling up the entire room, more pouring in every second. No, I chant internally. No, no, no. This can't be the end. This can't be. It can't. I still have to meet her. Let me go to wherever she is. Please.

I feel the tears and blood start to come. Blood drips from my mouth, splattering on the floor. My vision is blurring, but whether it's from tears or poison, I can't tell.

I can tell the final moment is coming.

If there is someone out there called God, then I want Him to know this: I don't regret anything. If anything, I want to keep living, to fulfill all the things that I want to keep on doing, even though I know I can never have the days I had with her ever again.

The blood keeps on coming. My breath is growing short. In this last moment, all I ask is one thing—my last request—what is your name?