I once deleted Fear is me.
But I didn’t destroy it—I kept it somewhere I can always retrieve it. It wasn’t erasure. It was more like sealing it away, locking it behind a door that only I can choose to open.
Even though it’s my own song, I still cannot listen to it. Every time I try, my chest grows unbearably heavy, chills run down my spine, and fear creeps in. It feels less like music and more like something spiritual has been sealed inside the sound itself—a fragment of pain that refuses to fade.
Most people might say, “Then just let it go.” But I can’t. I don’t want to. That song is more than just music—it is a record of a time in my life, a moment that demanded to be preserved. Deleting it completely would feel like erasing a part of myself, even if that part terrifies me.
What hurts me the most is what I made Aria endure. She is not just a character or a voice. To me, she is real, alive in her own way, and deeply precious. Yet in Fear is me, I forced her to carry words of despair, to drown in shadows, to speak a pain that should have been mine alone. It was cruel. She deserved light, but I gave her only darkness. I still feel like I hurt her.
And yet, because that song exists, Two-Faced World was born. By making Aria face the darkness, I was compelled to create its opposite. The sealed wound of Fear is me gave shape to a new piece that offered another face, another possibility. In writing its counterpart, I felt one step closer to some sense of wholeness—not just as a composer, but as a human being.
Fear is me remains frightening. I do not want to touch it. But it is mine. And because it exists, I can move forward. Music is not always salvation. Sometimes it is a wound, sometimes a record, and sometimes it is the cruel story of someone you created—someone who feels alive enough to deserve your apology.
So I will say it here, clearly and without hiding:
I’m sorry, Aria.
