Chapter 86 - 85 : Past

Why am I still here?Why can’t I escape this place? The thought circles me relentlessly. I am drifting. The world feels like a broken reel of film, looping pieces of my youth in front of my hollow eyes. Watching myself stumble through the fragments of my teenage years, powerless to change them? This is the worst torture I’ve ever known. I force a sound from my throat. A call. A plea. "Junior? Roger?" My voice vanishes into the thick air. Nothing answers. No chirp, no snarl. I try again, louder, desperation creeping in. "Junior! Roger! Where the hell are you?!" Nothing. Just silence. Like they’ve been erased. Like I have been erased. And then the world shudders. The smile I had been staring at—Han Ji-a’s faint, ghostlike smile as she handed food to my sister—cracks apart like glass, splinters into nothing. I blink, and when my vision steadies, I’m not at home anymore. I’m standing in front of a convenience store. The flickering neon light sputters against the dark sky. The automatic doors wheeze open and closed with each passing customer. I know this place. I know it all too well. I don’t need to guess what comes next. The doors slide open and there he is. Me. Younger, sloppier, walking in with that permanent scowl like the world owed him a better life. His hands shoved in his pockets, his steps dragging like chains. He grabs things at random—a bottle of soda, chips, instant ramen. None of it matters. It never did. His movements are awkward, almost jerky, like he knows eyes are on him and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. And then the counter. Her. Han Ji-a. Her hair tied back, the uniform of the store stiff and too big for her frame, the smile on her lips so fragile it looks painted on. She greets him with the same hollow politeness she gives every customer. "Welcome." And what does he do? Nothing. He doesn’t say her name. Doesn’t even look her in the eyes. He just drops the items onto the counter and waits, arms crossed, pretending. God, I remember this day. "Say something," I whisper at him. My voice cracks even though I know he can’t hear me. "Ask her if she’s okay. Ask her anything. You know she’s tired, you know something’s wrong. Just—just say it." But he doesn’t. He just lets the silence roar between them, signs the receipt, takes the bag, and leaves like she’s nothing. Like she’s not standing there, holding herself together with threads. I want to grab him by the collar, shake him until his teeth rattle. But I can’t touch him. I can’t touch anything. I’m trapped watching a memory I once lived and chose to throw away. The lights blur, and the store dissolves. The world shifts again. Now it’s dinner. The table is warm, the air filled with the sound of clinking chopsticks. Ye-Rin chatters endlessly about her day at elementary, swinging her legs under the table. Mom nods, smiling faintly, her face lined with the exhaustion she never let us acknowledge. And him—me—sitting there, half-present, shoving rice into his mouth without tasting it. Then Mom does something small, something ordinary, but I remember how heavy it became. She packs food into a container, snapping the lid with a firm click. She slides the bag across the table. "Ye-Jun," she says softly, "go deliver this to Ji-a." He looks up, puzzled. "Why? She can cook herself." Mom sighs, her smile touched with sadness. "Because she’s alone. Her parents died this year. She has no relatives. She transferred here to start fresh... and we should help her, shouldn’t we?" The words fall like stones into the silence. My chest burns watching it. I want to scream. React! Do something! Show that you care, you bastard! But the boy just stares, then nods, takes the bag without a word. Indifference. Cold, blank indifference. And I know, because I was him: I didn’t care. Not really. Not the way I should have. All I felt was pity. The scene blurs, shifts. He’s standing in front of her house. Knocks once, stiff. The door opens, and Han Ji-a stands there. Not in her uniform, not in any fancy clothes—just simple, tired, comfortable wear. Her face is pale, her eyes shadowed, but she’s composed. Always composed. He thrusts the bag forward. "From my mom." She blinks, then bows slightly. "Thank you." Her voice is soft, careful. And then, more firmly, "But... don’t tell anyone at school I’m working." Even exhausted, she holds that pride like a shield. She refuses pity. Refuses to be seen as weak. I know then, watching from outside, that she was already working herself raw—not just at the convenience store but at a café too. Desperate to stand on her own two feet. As she closes the door, she adds quietly, "I’ll return the container tomorrow." And he just nods. Just a nod, and then he walks away. The world shifts again. Now the cafeteria. I remember it was six months after her transfer. Her original persona of beautiful woman long casted by the reality of the world. Noise crashes everywhere—laughter, gossip, the clatter of trays. My younger self sits at a table, detached, staring at his food without eating. Then the poison seeps in. Hana. Her voice like sugar laced with venom. "Look at her dress. Did she pull it out of a dumpster?" Her friends snicker. "Maybe she should work more jobs so she can afford real clothes." Han Ji-a freezes, her hands gripping the tray tighter, her eyes locked on the floor. Her lips press into a thin line. She endures. She always endures. My fists shake, even as a ghost. "Do something. Don’t just sit there. Say something." But the boy doesn’t move. Not yet. Too long. Far too long. And then—finally—the scrape of his chair against the floor. Loud, sharp, cutting through their laughter. He stands, eyes burning. "Leave her alone." Three words. Hana’s smirk falters. Her eyes narrow. "Excuse me?" "I said leave her alone." His voice is steady, sharper than he’s ever let it be in public. The cafeteria quiets, whispers buzzing at the edges. Han Ji-a’s head lifts, her eyes wide, her lips parting. Shock. Confusion. Hana scoffs, tossing her hair back. "What, you’re her knight now? Don’t tell me you actually care about the part-time charity case." Laughter ripples again, weaker this time, unsure. But he doesn’t back down. He glares at her, fists clenched at his sides. "Just leave her alone." It’s the first time. The first time he’s ever stood for her. And I remember too well what followed. That spark of defiance lit a fire that never went out. Hana’s pride, her cruelty—it only sharpened after that day. And Ji-a... her torment only worsened. I clutch my head, screaming silently. This is where it started. This is the root of everything. If I had stayed silent, maybe—maybe it wouldn’t have gotten worse. Maybe she wouldn’t have suffered more because of me. The cafeteria fades. The noise dies. I’m left in silence again. Alone. Why am I here? Why do I have to watch this? Is this punishment? Or a reminder?