this is cirno and fumo

You will never be a real wizard. You have no wand, you have no mana, you have no spells. You are a LARPing muggle twisted by nostalgia and schizophrenia into a crude mockery of nature's perfection.

All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your ghoulish appearance behind closed doors.

Sorcerers are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed magic users of all types to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even muggles who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a mages. Your bone structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk thaumaturgist home with you, he'll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your diseased, infected mundane nature.

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 buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your parents 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 birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a muggle 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 muggle.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.