If I had known I would ever write again…
I wouldn't have spent the last twenty years living like this.
Those were his final words.
A quiet ending… to what I once believed was only the beginning of something worth writing.
He died… and left this paper behind.
For you.
You bastards.
His life was never easy.
But from the outside, it looked almost… bearable. Maybe even enjoyable.
But those who truly knew that kind of life—
knew it was nothing short of hell.
So I hope you read my part in his story.
Because I was there.
I saw it.
I witnessed his hell with my own eyes.
First Page
Michael was… ordinary.
At least, that's what I thought.
Just another middle school student who spent most of his time asleep, his head resting lazily on the desk, completely detached from everything around him.
The only time he ever seemed alive was during gym class.
I had never once seen him properly lift his head during lessons.
And no one dared to speak to him.
He was the only foreigner in class.
Even though we all knew… he understood Korean just fine.
Still, there was always a distance around him.
A quiet barrier no one tried to cross.
And I wasn't any different.
Not until that day.
As the class president, it was my job to hand out the English literature exam papers.
One by one, I called names, placing each paper carefully in its owner's hands—
Until I reached his.
A perfect score.
I froze for a second, staring at the paper as if I had read it wrong.
Michael… got a perfect score?
I didn't know what surprised me more—
the result… or the fact that I suddenly wanted to talk to him.
But I didn't.
Instead, I handed out the rest of the papers—
everyone's… except his.
I kept it with me.
And I waited.
I waited for him to wake up…
to come to me.
Michael was tall, with sharp, defined features that gave him a naturally intense presence.
His eyes carried a quiet, piercing gaze, even when half-lidded with sleep.
His hair was dark, thick, slightly messy—like he never cared enough to fix it.
There was something about him…
a mix of laziness and quiet dissatisfaction.
Something distant.
Eventually, he stirred.
Slowly, he lifted his head and looked around before his eyes settled on me.
"You have my paper, don't you?"
His voice was calm. Flat.
"No."
He blinked.
"What?"
I met his gaze without hesitation.
"No."
A brief pause.
Then he spoke again, quieter this time—
"Sorry… I thought you had it. Since you're the class president."
I tilted my head slightly.
"Did you cheat?"
His expression didn't change.
"No."
"Really?"
"Really."
There was a short silence between us.
Then, without thinking, I asked—
"Are you good at writing?"
Something shifted.
His face… lit up.
Not completely—just enough to notice.
Like I had unknowingly touched something important.
"Yeah…" he said slowly.
"I write… a little."
Then he looked at me, almost curious.
"Do you want to read it?"
And just like that…
something began.
I don't know if we really became friends.
But I do remember this—
I think that was the first time he ever smiled at me.
I looked at him, a bit surprised.
"Really? Can I read it?"
That was where my story with Michael started.
But it wasn't where his story began.
Not even close.
Still…
I'll tell you my part.
So maybe—just maybe—
you'll understand a little about him.
From a writer and a doctor...
To someone whose death was celebrated by all.