By Zephyria 
My childhood spent with my parents is faint. A few memories remain, but I’m not even sure if these things actually happened or if they were dramatized in my head.
For instance, the image of sitting and eating a meal with my parents at a table, my father holding the back of my bicycle so I wouldn’t fall, or my mother holding my hand as she took me to kindergarten.
Because they were such ordinary daily occurrences and not special days, I wondered if they were memories I had seen on TV or had created through imagination.
“I grew up in back alleys like this. Children are easy to get sympathy for, so they’re good to use for begging. They smuggle a few kids out of the orphanage and sell them to organizations. Who would care if a few orphans disappeared? It’s easy to make an excuse that they just ran away from the orphanage on their own. Once they go to the organization, they make them beg when they’re young, and as they get older, they teach them skills and send them out into the streets. I’m the result of going through all of that.”
I haven’t seen many photo exhibitions, but I can tell this one is peculiar. Instead of beautiful landscapes, people, or animals, it displayed photos of back alleys from various countries. Among them, I spotted the familiar back alleys of my own country.
They were wretched then, and they are still wretched now.
The black-and-white prints had a distinct sense of gloom. They made the viewer feel depressed and foul. The bastard who took these must be a pervert. He probably enjoys making people feel like shit.
“I feel this every time I see them, but these photos are fucking awful.”
“How can you say that here?”
At my muttering, the guy standing beside me glanced around and scolded me in a small voice.
“They’re fucking awful, so I said they’re fucking awful. What’s wrong with that?”
The fault lies with the photographer who took these shitty photos. I expressed my opinion with confidence, and the guy let out a low sigh.
“You care too much about what others think. If you keep bottling up what you want to say, you’ll get sick.”
“You don’t care enough about what others think. There’s such a thing as basic etiquette.”
“Maybe there is, but not right now. Anyone would look at this and call it fucking awful. Honestly, you’re not about to spout some bullshit about being ‘deeply moved’ by these photos, are you?”
As if afraid of what else might come out of my mouth, the guy’s face turned pale, and he grabbed my arm to pull me away. As I was led out of the gallery, I muttered a curse toward the people who had the nerve to charge an admission fee for something like this.
“If you hate it that much, why don’t we look at a different photo or art exhibition?”
“Do I look like the type of guy destined for a cultural life?”
“And yet you consistently come to see this exhibition. Even if you pretend otherwise, don’t you actually like the photos?”
It just so happened that I ended up picking the guy’s pockets as he was leaving this exhibition, and so, by chance, this became the place where we met.
We hadn’t exchanged names or contact information, nor were we close enough to promise a next meeting, pick a new location, or wait for each other in a cafe or restaurant.
Though he didn’t say it, he seemed conscious of the driver who was subtly keeping a watchful eye on him. I had no desire to get closer to him or flaunt a friendship, but more than that, I didn’t want to be seen in a scene that suggested such intimacy.
We were just… two people who happened to cross paths while browsing a photo exhibition, briefly exchanged greetings and stories of daily life, and then parted ways. That was enough.
“I don’t come here because I like the photos. I come to watch the people looking at them.”
“Of all places, you watch people at a gallery?”
“It’s funny how people who ignore and avoid real-life back alleys because they’re dirty and scary suddenly marvel at them as if they’re works of art once they’re captured in a photo. It feels pretty good to mock that.”
The guy kept his mouth shut, but the look he gave me said, You have a terrible personality. Feeling pleased, I started to laugh, but it triggered a coughing fit, and I hurriedly covered my mouth.
After hacking out a series of coughs that felt like they were tearing my chest apart, I finally calmed down and removed my hand. The guy, who had been standing silently watching me, turned pale and fumbled through his pockets.
“W-what is it?”
He asked as he used a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the corners of my mouth.
“What?”
At my question, he unfolded the handkerchief. A white cotton handkerchief, the kind a child might use, was stained with red blood. When I opened the hand I had used to cover my mouth, I saw blood clinging to my palm.
“…Are you really sick somewhere?”
“Sick? What do you mean sick? I just bit my tongue while laughing.”
“You know that doesn’t make sense, right?”
“Fine, I’m sick. I’m so sick I’m about to die. There’s a tumor in my chest, and they say I’m going to kick the bucket soon.”
Despite getting the answer he wanted, the guy’s expression didn’t soften. Instead, he turned white, looking as if he might collapse as if he were the one who had been told he was dying.
“Is that true?”
“Who makes jokes about stuff like that?”
“Have you… been to a hospital? Wouldn’t surgery make it better?”
“I don’t even have enough money to eat myself to death, so what the hell is this about surgery? Not only do I lack the funds, but it’s too late. Even back then, they said I’d be lucky to live two more months.”
“When was that?”
“Three months ago.”
Since I’ve lived an extra month beyond the two the doctor predicted, I’m actually ahead of schedule. Who knows? I might just bumble through another month. Not that I have any particular lingering attachment to clinging to life.
“Go to a large hospital and get checked. Get a detailed examination. My family runs a hospital. Since it’s a large one, they’ll be able to tell accurately. I’ll pay for it. Please? The diagnosis could have been wrong!”
The guy grabbed my hand and pleaded with a desperate intensity. It was the first time he had demanded something of me so strongly, which felt novel, and the fact that it was for my sake somehow made my heart ache.
“I have no intention of going to get a confirmation of my death.”
“The results could have been wrong.”
“I agree that there are plenty of quack doctors, but this one seems certain. Look at me. Do I look like a healthy person? Even when I eat, the weight just drops off until I’m like a withered tree, and I cough up blood. I wake up in the middle of the night rolling around in pain that feels like I’m dying. Does this look like a normal person to you?”
Even someone who knows nothing about medicine can tell this isn’t normal. Anyone would see me as a guy who’s about to die.
I gave a hollow laugh, but the guy just stood there, tears dripping down his face. I didn’t understand why he was so sad. He looked as heartbroken as if he’d heard a family member was dying.
We’d only known each other for two months at most, and we didn’t even see each other every day; we were just acquaintances who talked for a few dozen minutes before parting. He was a kind, foolish guy with too much empathy.
A guy like that must find it hard to live in this world.
I, who had absolutely nothing, whose only possession was this body, and whose body was now being consumed until I vanished—I was worrying about a guy who was born with everything.
In the past, I would have said that bastard is just talking out of his ass because he was born with everything, but it seems that facing death brings out a sense of pity for others.
“Ah, forget it. Let’s stop with this depressing talk.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I said forget it. What are you sorry for? Please stop apologizing for everything. People will look down on you.”
“I should have lived a better life.”
“Yeah, I know I lived like trash.”
I thought he was worrying about me, but was he actually cursing me, saying I’d go to hell when I die? I admit I lived like trash, but hearing it from someone else made me think that if hell exists, I’m definitely headed there.
“You could have lived like that. You should have lived like that. That was stolen from you.”
Gripping my hand tightly, the guy muttered with eyes that had half-lost their focus. I knew his moods fluctuated, but I wondered if he was actually losing his mind. I started to feel a bit scared.
“Hey, are you okay?”
I’m the one who’s about to die, but for some reason, the guy in front of me seemed to be in worse shape. I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip—though his hand was as thin as my own wasted one—was surprisingly strong and wouldn’t budge.
“Hey, I said it hurts!”
“Going to school normally while being cared for by parents, laughing and chatting with friends. Worrying about a career or a partner instead of survival. Without having to be in pain like this…”
“That’s just a hypothetical. To put it bluntly, you can live a perfectly normal life and then kick the bucket overnight.”
I tried to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but the guy didn’t seem interested in returning to his senses. What am I supposed to do? I looked around for help, but for some reason, even the driver who was supposed to be waiting nearby was nowhere to be seen, perhaps having gone to the restroom.
“Why…”
“What?”
“Why do people live by harming others? Stealing precious things without any regret or reflection. Ruining someone else’s life and then strutting around as if they’ve won a medal.”
“What are you talking about?”
It was clear he was talking about something, but I couldn’t understand him at all. He was speaking in riddles, leaving out the important parts. I sighed, wondering if I should keep listening to this vague rambling.
“You look like you’re in worse shape than I am. Go home and rest. Where’s your driver? Why can’t I see him?”
“Those people are the ones who should be punished. Why is it always the ones who lose who keep losing? Why is it always the victim who suffers? It’s unfair enough to be wronged by others, so why do they have to get a disease like this too?”
“Hey, I appreciate you worrying about me, but take it down a notch. It’s not like I chose to get sick, and no one told me to get sick. I just lived a miserable life, starved, and pushed my body to the limit, so it broke. There’s no need to feel wronged, and there’s no one to grab by the collar over it.”
Actually, I was angry and felt it was unfair too.
I resented the gang members who forced me to beg and pickpocket, stripping me of every cent and barely feeding me. I resented the orphanage director who sold children like objects to those people. I resented the hit-and-run driver who struck my parents and fled, and I resented the incompetence of the police who couldn’t catch a single hit-and-run driver.
The world was cruel to me, and I deeply resented that world. Every single day was a struggle, so painful it was almost unbearable. But now that I’m facing death, I feel like there’s no one to blame; this is just my lot in life.
“Still, it’s nice to have someone worry about me dying. Thanks.”
“Why… are you thanking me?”
I was a bit taken aback because it was the first time I’d seen such a venomous expression on his face.
Is this how you react to someone thanking you? Why is he acting like this all of a sudden? Was the news of my death that shocking? I’m the one dying, so why does he look more indignant and wronged than I do?
Caught off guard, I couldn’t think of a response and just stammered, “Uh, um.”
“I did nothing, so why thank me? Turning a blind eye and condoning it is also a sin. I am just as much a sinner.”
It was becoming increasingly difficult to understand what he was saying. I grew confused, and the guy became visibly more depressed.
“Hey, I’m fine. It’s not like I’m dropping dead this second. Who knows? I might just hang on month by month and live another half year easily. More importantly, I think you need to calm down. Why are you acting like you’re on drugs?”
Speaking lightly to the guy who had gone from worrying about me to being angry and then suddenly slumped in depression, I stealthily pulled my hand away.
“Ah, I didn’t take my medicine today. My head felt heavy, so I didn’t want to take it. I’m sorry.”
I mean, it’s not exactly something he needs to apologize to me for. Was he actually taking medication? He really wasn’t normal. The kid in front of me was starting to seem more and more frightening.
“I… I don’t think our meeting was a coincidence. At first, I thought it was, but then I realized it wasn’t. We were meant to meet. There was a reason we absolutely had to.”
Suddenly? Out of nowhere? It was hard to keep up with this abrupt development. It felt like a confession was about to happen.
I’m not gay, I have no interest in men, I’m a terminally ill man with a deadline on my life, and on top of that, he’s an Omega and I’m a Beta.
Dreading what might come out of his mouth, I took a half-step back with a reluctant expression.
“Jae-hee. Min Jae-hee.”
“…What?”
I had never told him my name, and my lips parted in shock at the sound of my name coming from his mouth.
“Who the hell are you. How do you know my name…?”
The guy, who had spoken without certainty, seemed to find his answer in my question and looked even more depressed.
“The photo. I remember the photo you showed me. So I wondered.”
“Photo?”
What photo was he talking about? After thinking for a moment, I remembered the photo I had shown him a while ago.
The photo I took with my parents. The only photo I possess. My parents smiling brightly while holding me as a child. I can’t even remember when it was, but it’s the only remaining trace of my family.
“What about that photo? How do you know my name from that? How is that possible?”
My name isn’t written on it. What connection is there between that photo and my name? But despite my pressing, the guy only shook his head.
“I’m sorry. But I can’t. I can’t tell you. I told you, didn’t I? Turning a blind eye and condoning it is a sin. I am a sinner too.”
“Hey!”
“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I have to go.”
With that, the guy turned around and ran away, stumbling. I stood there blankly, as if I’d been hit in the head with a fist, before suddenly snapping back to my senses.
“Hey, wait a second! Stop!”
Aside from my curiosity, I was worried about a kid in such a poor state.
The driver, who usually stuck to him like glue, was nowhere to be seen today. They say you never find a dog turd when you actually need one; the guy who was so quick to catch him when I was stealing his wallet was nowhere to be found today.
I felt like I couldn’t just let him go like that. Hadn’t he been assigned a chauffeur specifically so he wouldn’t wander alone? I looked around for the driver, but fearing I’d lose the guy if I delayed any further, I started running after him.
The guy, who usually didn’t seem to have much stamina, ran surprisingly well today, as if he’d eaten something healthy. I was the one panting as I chased him. My chest tightened painfully, and a cough surged up.
Far from closing the gap, I had to struggle just to keep him in sight. Normally, running this much would be nothing, but it seemed the cancer was burning away more than just my life—my stamina was gone too. The sound of my own gasping breath was almost deafening.
After running aimlessly, the guy climbed up onto a pedestrian overpass and came to a sudden halt. Standing blankly, staring at the cars rushing beneath the bridge, he looked like a doll with its strings cut.
“Hey, what are you doing standing there?”
I approached him slowly and spoke. When I was about five or six steps away, he turned his head to look at me.
“You should go home. Your driver is probably looking for you.”
“I guess we weren’t meant to meet.”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry for stealing your wallet. I did it because I had to survive, but it was still a bad thing. I’m reflecting on it, I really am.”
“It would have been better if I’d lived without knowing. No, at least it would have been fine as long as you didn’t die.”
I’m not dead yet. I wish he’d stop treating me like I’m already gone.
Because the guy looked precarious, speaking incoherently in a half-delirious state, I forced a smile and gave a vague, “Yeah, yeah,” to his words.
“Hey, let’s go home. I’m telling you, the driver is looking for you.”
As if agreeing with me, a phone ringtone drifted from the guy’s pocket. I looked at him as if to say, See, I told you, but he didn’t pay any attention to the desperately ringing phone. Instead of answering, he struggled to climb onto the railing of the overpass.
What the hell is he doing?
I froze, momentarily stunned by the scene before my eyes.
“Hey… what are you doing?”
“I don’t want to live. I hate the idea of marriage, I hate living while walking on eggshells, and I’m sick of acting according to my parents’ wishes. I hate my eldest brother who looks at me like an insect, and I hate my second brother who screams at me. It’s horrific to be monitored just in case I release pheromones and roll around with an Alpha.”
Uh, right. I get that your life is suffocating. But why suddenly? Why this sudden explosion and suicide attempt? And right in front of me, someone who doesn’t even know if they’ll die today or tomorrow.
I wondered if it was because of the medicine he said he didn’t take today. If it was such an important medication, someone should have looked after him. I don’t know what the people around him were doing while he reached this state.
“First, just calm down. Your emotions seem to be swinging way too much today. This is going to become a ‘dark history’ once time passes. Move your feet this way and come down. Want to go grab a coffee? I have some time today, want to go eat something together?”
“…I know you’re a good person.”
Perched precariously on the railing, the guy looked back at me and smiled.
“That’s why I wanted you to live a better life. I thought that even if the past was hard, you could live a better life from now on. Because you fully deserve it.”
“Uh, thanks. Then how about we talk in detail about my ‘better life’? Over coffee.”
If he stepped down from that railing, I felt like we could even talk about plans for next year—plans that might not even happen. What next year plans? I could even draft a ten-year plan.
“The accident. If it weren’t for that accident, at least I wouldn’t be like this.”
“…What accident?”
“Your parents’ accident.”
Ah, my head really hurts. I don’t know how a conversation can jump around so erratically. Not knowing which beat to follow, I just nodded vaguely and said, “Yeah, right.”
“That person didn’t even repent. They laid it out like some kind of heroic tale, as if it were something to be proud of. To be so brazen after completely ruining someone else’s life…”
“Wait, what did you just say?”
I felt like I had just heard something incredibly important. As if the guy knew about my parents’ accident—as if he knew the identity of the hit-and-run driver who had never been caught.
“And yet, I can’t speak. I can’t tell the truth. I’m the brazen one. Even though I knew, I made excuses, saying I wasn’t sure, and didn’t say anything. I told myself to just leave it alone since it was in the past. That the future is more important. I comforted myself by thinking that if you lived a better life than you do now, it would be okay, and so I just…”
“Do you know who it is? …The perpetrator of the traffic accident? You? How?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“…Who is it?”
At my question, the guy quietly shook his head. One step, then another. Before I could get close enough to pull him down, the body before my eyes vanished. My hand reached out frantically and caught a slender wrist.
Scream! A shriek echoed from far below the pedestrian bridge. The blast of a car horn left my ears ringing. I could vaguely see people rushing up onto the bridge.
If you’re going to help, come a little faster.
The strength was draining from my grip. The body leaning against the railing swayed.
“Who is it? Who’s the culprit!”
“…I’m sorry.”
Despite my desperate questioning, the guy refused to open his mouth until the end. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He just muttered those words over and over, as if copy-pasting them.
I say “I’m sorry” too. When I first stole someone’s wallet, the words I repeated dozens of times in my head were “I’m sorry.” That’s why I know. I know how futile and meaningless that word is.
The body shook violently. At the same moment I gripped the wrist that was slipping from my grasp, the wretched body leaning against the railing tumbled over the edge.
Something with great force collided with the body as it plummeted toward the ground. With a thud, the body bounced as if flying into the sky, and for the first time, it felt a sense of freedom. It was peaceful, like being held in my mother’s arms as a small child, like lying on a fluffy duvet, or like floating on a cloud.
In this moment, I didn’t think about the weight the guy had been enduring, the unnamed culprit of the accident, or the lingering attachments to a life with only a few days left.
Closing my heavy eyelids, I let everything go and smiled.