Time loses meaning when every day feels like the same beating.
I can't remember when it started to blur. Maybe it was the fourth time Min-ho shoved me into a wall. Or the fiftieth. Maybe it was when my books were ripped up and scattered across the hall like confetti for everyone else's amusement. Maybe it was when people stopped laughing at the bullying and just watched in silence, like it was routine. Like I wasn't even human anymore, just part of the scenery.
Whatever the moment was, something inside me snapped without a sound. I didn't even notice it at first.
Until I realized… I couldn't remember the last time anyone said my name.
The teachers stopped calling it during attendance. They'd glance at me, hesitate, then mutter "present" under their breath and move on. At first, I thought it was an accident. Then it happened again. And again. Soon, I couldn't even recall the sound of my name in their voices.
The students never used it either. To them, I was just "Null." Or "ghost." Or nothing at all.
Days passed, and I sat in silence, wondering: Did I ever really have a name?
Money. That was another slow, rotting thought that clawed its way back into my mind.
For years, the money we lived on felt like it just… existed. I knew it came from my father, in a way. He used to send child support when I was younger, back when he still answered calls. Back when he still pretended to care.
Then one day, he stopped.
The story is simple, really. He "moved overseas." A clean phrase for a dirty truth. He found someone new, started a new family, and erased us from his life like a mistake on a piece of paper. His number changed. His emails bounced back. His face disappeared from every social feed.
We were ghosts before I even learned how to spell the word.
The money that trickled in after that wasn't steady. It came in lumps, like guilty hush money sent across seas, never accompanied by words. Sometimes it was enough to last months. Other times, nothing came, and I worked myself to the bone at part-time jobs to fill the gaps.
Even now, I can't look at a single bill without feeling sick. Every note carries his fingerprints. Every coin is a reminder that he replaced me.
I stopped going to school regularly. I told myself I needed more shifts, that the medicine bills were stacking too high. But the truth? I couldn't face the hallways anymore. Couldn't stand the endless sneers, the way eyes pierced me like daggers.
But absence doesn't go unnoticed forever.
A few weeks later, the teachers called me in. A cramped office, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, three adults sitting behind a table. Their faces looked serious, concerned, but I'd seen enough people fake sympathy to know when it was a mask.
"Why haven't you been attending?" one of them asked.
I stared at the floor. My throat clenched shut.
Another leaned forward. "We know about your mother's condition. Scoliosis, yes? Severe? That must be difficult."
My head shot up. "How do you—"
"We know more than you think," the first teacher interrupted smoothly. "You should have told us earlier. We can help."
For the first time in years, something stirred inside me. Hope. Fragile, trembling, dangerous hope.
"A healer?" I asked, my voice shaking.
The teacher smiled. "Yes. There are healers who specialize in conditions like hers. We'll arrange something."
I could barely breathe. My chest swelled, my eyes stung. My mother, free from pain? Walking again? Smiling without wincing? It felt like the first sunrise after years of endless night.
"Really?" I whispered.
"Of course."
They lied so easily.
A week passed. Then two. Then a month.
No healer came. No appointment was arranged.
The teachers avoided my eyes in class. When I tried to ask, they brushed me off with excuses. "It takes time." "Paperwork." "Be patient."
Then, slowly, their tone changed. Irritation where there used to be feigned sympathy. Sharpness where there was once false warmth.
One of them even said, "You shouldn't rely on others for everything. You need to take responsibility."
My hope rotted. Again.
Min-ho found out, of course. Bullies always sniff out weakness like blood in the water.
"So," he drawled one afternoon, shoving me against the lockers yet again. "They promised you a healer, didn't they? Bet you believed them, too."
His grin widened when I flinched.
"You're pathetic. Even the teachers don't care about you. No one does."
The worst part wasn't his words—it was the way his eyes lit up when he saw the truth in mine. The satisfaction of watching me break, piece by piece.
It didn't stop with him.
The others joined in. Slowly at first—someone tripping me in the hall, someone else laughing a little too loudly. Then it spread, like rot across wood.
Whispers followed me everywhere. Objects were "accidentally" knocked out of my hands. My desk was vandalized with insults. My bag was stolen and dumped in the trash.
By the time the second month rolled around, it wasn't just Min-ho. It wasn't just a few students.
It was everyone.
The whole school.
And the silence of those who didn't bully was even worse. The way they turned their heads, the way their eyes slid past me like I was invisible. Like I wasn't worth the air I breathed.
At night, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling until my vision blurred.
"I want to die," I whispered.
The words didn't even scare me anymore. They felt… natural. Honest.
But then I'd turn my head, and through the thin wall I'd hear my mother coughing. Gasping. Whispering my name in her sleep, the one thing I still couldn't remember hearing from anyone else.
If I left, she'd be alone.
So I stayed.
I stayed, and I hated.
Every day, the hate grew sharper, blacker, heavier. Hate for Min-ho. Hate for the teachers. Hate for my father. Hate for everyone who looked away.
But most of all—
Hate for myself.