Everyone thought Kang Jihoon was quiet.
But silence is not peace — it's pressure.
The kind that builds behind the eyes, in the chest, in the mind — until it drowns everything else.
At 17, Jihoon wasn't living. He was performing.
He woke up, went to school, smiled when required, and answered when called — not out of confidence, but obligation.
His brain was a warzone.
No bullets. Just whispers.
> "You're not enough."
"No one cares."
"You're nothing more than a weight."
At home, it used to be better.
Once, his mother brushed his hair gently and told him he was her brightest light. (Eomma Mira — loving but distant now)
Once, his father lifted him up after tests and said, "You'll be stronger than me one day." (Appa Daejin — once supportive, now strict and demanding)
But those memories had faded into myth.
Now, Appa Daejin only spoke in commands.
Success wasn't praised — it was expected.
Failure wasn't forgiven — it was personal.
> "Why are you always tired?"
"What happened to the boy who used to top his class?"
"Don't act weak. It's embarrassing."
Eomma Mira, who once held his fears in her arms, now only looked at him like a puzzle missing too many pieces. (She feels helpless or emotionally withdrawn)
> "Maybe you need a break from the phone."
"Don't look at me like that, Jihoon. It makes me sad."
He wanted to scream, "I'm not lazy. I'm not okay."
But screaming required strength — and even his body had stopped cooperating.
He was thin. Fragile.
Brittle wrists, cold fingers, and skin that bruised too easily.
Every gym class was a quiet humiliation.
He coughed after running. Trembled after push-ups.
Sometimes, he felt like he didn't have bones.
Just nerves, sadness, and shadows.
At school, no one bullied him.
They didn't need to. They overlooked him — the crueler kind of rejection.
Even teachers stopped expecting much from Kang Jihoon. (Isolated, invisible to peers and educators)
But there was one person he couldn't ignore.
One person he couldn't stop noticing.
Seoyeon.
The girl who made the air feel less suffocating.
The one who said his name once — just once — and it echoed inside his chest for days. (Unrequited affection — a one-sided, fragile hope)
She didn't love him.
He knew that.
But in his mind, her voice spoke to him like it could.
When the pressure got too heavy — when the house felt like a grave — he'd escape to the rooftop.
There, under cold stars and city noise, he could pretend.
Pretend he wasn't fading.
Pretend someone saw him.
Pretend Seoyeon was right there beside him…
…saying,
> "You're not broken, Jihoon. I see you."
But tonight, he didn't go to the rooftop.
He went straight home.
Straight to his room.
Straight into the past.
He lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling with tears slipping silently into his pillow.
He remembered her —
Halmeoni.
His grandmother.
The only one who never asked for his grades.
Who didn't care if he was skinny or sick or quiet.
She used to hold his hands, warm and worn, whispering,
> "You don't need to be strong for me, Jihoona. Just be." (The only true source of unconditional love and comfort)
When he cried, she didn't ask why.
She just let him.
Even when his parents stopped noticing him…
Even when his body started giving up…
She always looked at him like he mattered.
But she was gone now.
Buried a year ago.
And yet, she lived louder in his heart than anyone alive.
That night, Jihoon cried without a sound — the way he always did.
His throat burned from holding it in.
His chest ached from being brave too long.
He closed his eyes with tears still warm on his cheeks…
> "Halmeoni… I miss you…"
And finally, exhausted by his own thoughts,
He fell asleep — not because he was peaceful,
But because he couldn't carry himself awake anymore.
---
[End of Chapter 1]
Next Chapter Preview:
"A Place That Doesn't Exist" — Jihoon wakes up inside a dream too perfect to be real… and too painful to forget.
Will he ever feel that warmth again — or will it all come crashing down?