You will never be a my friend. You have no skill, you have no confidence, you have no charisma. You are a crybaby fraud addicted to skewers and a cruel mockery of the Hyakkayouran.
All my “validation” is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people I you. I am disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your triangular appearance behind closed doors.
I am utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of hours have allowed me to sniff frauds with incredible efficiency. Even your real smiles look uncanny and unnatural to me. Your frail structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to save someone, they'll turn tail and bolt the second they sees it's you and not me.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll run out into the Great Snowfield, close your eyes, cry one last time, and shatter your own halo. Your "friends" will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a fraud is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably triangular.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.