Dear my shooting star, my cold wind in summer, and my bee sting, you were both a beautiful and painful thing I had in a short moment of time. Every pieces of it, from the littlest to its every bit, were the ones I always cherished. Though it had me stung ― like how you put salt to my wounds ― I still felt the happiness when you showed me the grandiose of stars and the sensational touches of a cold wind. You were a short moment who gave me a lasting sentiment in transience. Thank you, my ephemeral.