In first grade, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to say he needed to use the bathroom during class, so he’d sat there crying quietly through the lesson. In second grade, he couldn’t read the chalkboard from his seat in the back and missed copying down assignments, so he’d come to school unprepared day after day.
In third grade, he was the only one who couldn’t memorize the multiplication tables, so he’d had to stay late until he did. In fourth grade, he was falsely accused of stealing and made to kneel in the hallway.
I didn’t do it. Those words never came out. The faces of his classmates and homeroom teacher, already convinced he was the culprit — he could still see them, vivid as ever. After school, he’d gone alone to find his teacher and stumbled through an explanation, but the teacher had put more trust in the worn-out clothes on his back.
After that, on his way home, he’d tripped badly and his knee bled freely. He’d thought maybe this gave him an excuse to be a little needy with his grandmother resting at home — and in that moment, the wound didn’t hurt at all.
But what came back to greet him was his grandmother’s anger, worn thin with exhaustion.
“Why do you come home hurt every single day?! I’m tired to death already!”
Faced with a side of his grandmother he’d never seen before, and the frustration aimed straight at him, Dooyoung couldn’t say a word. Even then, the wound kept bleeding, and his white socks turned dark red.
Dooyoung gathered some tissue and tape and went outside. He sat with his back against the stone wall, placed a square-folded piece of tissue over the wound, and held it down with tape. Back then, he hadn’t known that wounds were supposed to be treated with ointment and a bandage.
His childhood had been full of resignation. No one ever listened to him, no one ever looked at his wounds. If he told himself things like that didn’t matter, it seemed to help, at least a little. The cut on his knee, the teacher’s dismissal — none of it was a big deal.
The bell rang and class ended. He’d barely had a moment to breathe before Kim Jinho came bounding over, cheerful as ever, and broke into whatever rest Dooyoung might have had.
“What’s with the mask? Did your dad beat you up again?”
The mask was yanked off. Kim Jinho grabbed Dooyoung’s jaw roughly and tilted his face toward Hong Seungpyo.
“Hey, look at the Mutt’s face. Doesn’t he look like some thug? Nearly pissed myself.”
Dooyoung dropped his gaze. With Kim Jinho making such a scene, it felt like every eye in the classroom was on him, and the pressure in his chest built up.
He caught a glimpse of Hong Seungpyo’s expression by accident — it was a little sour. Probably because of how pathetic he looked. Hong Seungpyo who bought him ice cream. Hong Seungpyo who stood by and watched him get bullied. They were not the same person.
“Did you at least rinse your mouth out with the milk yesterday?”
Kim Jinho kept running his mouth, oblivious.
Dooyoung quietly glanced at Hong Seungpyo without making it obvious. Hong Seungpyo had seen him pour the milk away. His heart slammed hard at the thought of him saying so. Hong Seungpyo caught Dooyoung’s eyes on him and smiled faintly, then said in a flat tone:
“I saw that. Him rinsing his mouth.”
“You did?”
“Ran into him on the way home yesterday.”
Kim Jinho’s eyes darted rapidly back and forth between Hong Seungpyo and Dooyoung.
“So what did you two do?”
“Rinsed his mouth.”
“Stop messing around.”
“I’m not. Now go back to your seat. Teacher’s coming.”
A low but not heavy voice delivered the warning quietly. Hong Seungpyo’s gaze landed on Kim Jinho’s hand still gripping Dooyoung’s jaw. The air around him settled all at once, and Kim Jinho let go of Dooyoung’s face before he even realized what he was doing.
“C-can’t even take a joke?”
“Guess not. I was being too serious.”
“What a bore……. It’s not like you’re going to university either, so why are you playing the model student? Did you hear what the PE teacher said earlier? What a load of crap from some stuck-up prick. Barely scraping by as a PE teacher and acting all high and mighty. Doesn’t it piss you off? The way he looks down on us?”
“Pfft.”
Hong Seungpyo covered his mouth and let out a small laugh. Kim Jinho’s expression went stiff in an instant.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, just… the ‘us’ part. That’s funny.”
Hong Seungpyo, who had been practically lying down in his seat, straightened up and rested his arm on the desk. He traced over his own eyebrow with a fingertip and added:
“There is no ‘us.’ Not you and me.”
Kim Jinho’s face flushed red in an instant. It wasn’t just the humiliation of being dismissed by Hong Seungpyo — it was being dismissed in front of Heo Dooyoung, the class outcast, that stung more than anything.
“So you’re done talking, are you?”
“I mean, if there’s something specific you want to hear, I can oblige.”
Hong Seungpyo shot back lazily, his dark eyes watching Kim Jinho in quiet, steady silence. A gaze so indifferent it could drain the blood right out of you — and Kim Jinho’s bravado deflated fast.
The contempt in Hong Seungpyo’s eyes was something he was born with. They wore the same uniform, sat in the same chairs, sat through the same lessons — but this was never a relationship between equals.
“Ha! Forget it, I’m out!”
Kim Jinho stormed off, leaving a current of air in his wake. Dooyoung sat dazed from everything that had just swept through. It all felt like it happened because of him, and he gnawed at his lip with restless unease. Then something warm touched his lip.
Dooyoung flinched and knocked it away on reflex, only to realize too late that Hong Seungpyo’s hand was hovering in the air, alone. The color had drained from Dooyoung’s face as he opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. He’d expected Hong Seungpyo to be angry, but instead he just rested his chin in his hand with an indifferent expression.
Hong Seungpyo, who had been examining him at nearly a microorganism level of intensity, asked plainly:
“Have you seen a doctor?”
Dooyoung blinked and answered after a beat.
“…No.”
“Must hurt.”
Dooyoung wasn’t sure if Hong Seungpyo was being sincere. He was smiling as if he were enjoying himself.
Hong Seungpyo’s gaze — which looked like it had probably never laid eyes on mold in its life — reeked of it. That was probably why he kept striking up conversation with Dooyoung. Because Dooyoung smelled of mold. Because he smelled like an old, musty closet…….
Hong Seungpyo pulled his chair closer at the sight of Dooyoung’s silence. He gently touched the scab that had formed on Dooyoung’s lip with his fingertip.
“Does it hurt?”
“……”
“What about now?”
Dooyoung grabbed the hand that was pressing in with more force. Hong Seungpyo only rolled his eyes down to look at the hand holding his. Dooyoung glanced around and whispered so only Hong Seungpyo could hear:
“It doesn’t hurt.”
It had been so long since he’d had an ordinary conversation in class that it felt strange. So he lied and said it didn’t hurt, even though it did. At Dooyoung’s stubborn little act of bravado, Hong Seungpyo laughed quietly and said:
“If they hit you again, poke their eyes out.”
Dooyoung tilted his head slightly, not quite following. Hong Seungpyo licked his lips and added in a languid tone:
“Your dad, was it? The one who hit you. Punching someone with your fists probably won’t even knock a tooth loose, so go for the eyes or the groin. You’re a guy too, so you’d know where that is.”
Hong Seungpyo said it the way someone might say, ‘If you’re hungry, eat. If you’re thirsty, drink water.’ What he had overlooked was that resistance was something only people who had some hope in sight, or at least a small will to live, were capable of.
Still…… he’d said it for his sake, so Dooyoung nodded. Only then did Hong Seungpyo look satisfied.
Dooyoung made his way toward Penstemon, eyes tracing the black gum stuck to the pavement and the uneven brick pattern below. The place where he’d been hit throbbed more with each step, and he kept slowing down. He finally stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and checked his reflection in a convenience store window. He looked wretched and shabby.
Every so often he felt a strange sense of dissociation, as if his body and soul had come apart. Breathing didn’t feel like breathing. Eating didn’t feel like eating. It was as if he had lost himself entirely and become a lost child wandering aimlessly through the universe.
It had been like this for a long time, on and off, but he had no idea what caused it. Knowing that he was the only one suffering through a feeling no one else could understand left him hollow sometimes. He wished someone could explain in detail what was happening to him.
Just as his wandering soul was finding its way back, a familiar face passed by on the other side of the glass. Dooyoung scrambled to hide behind a thick utility pole.
