Flip.
Another page turns, the tremor in his fingers making the paper flutter.
[Year X · Month X · Day X — Can’t recall the weather]
Time is precious.
It pains me that everyone spends their days wondering how to kill it. If only they could gather up those wasted hours and hand them to me.
I saw that kid who hasn’t shown up to school in days. Some people fight just to attend one more class, yet others skip whenever they feel like it and nothing happens to them.
Unfair.
Flip.
[Year X · Month X · Day X — Overcast]
No one in this world is without a story to tell.
I may look fine on the outside, yet even I walk around with a ticking time-bomb in my chest. Lost in my own misery, I forgot that fact.
The kid who acted as if he could repeat grades forever wasn’t ditching to fool around. He sometimes had to skip so he could work. Today I learned why he disappears every lunch break.
I wouldn’t want strangers to see my weakness either. Maybe he feels the same. We have nothing in common, but somehow he reminds me of myself.
Flip. Flip. Flip…
Director Kim’s hands speed up; page after page is packed with the conversations the two boys shared as they slowly became friends.
[Year X · Month X · Day X — Was it cloudy?]
Showed Seong-ha the story I wrote out of the talk we had last time. All I know how to write are diary entries, really.
He asked what kind of character I wanted; I said, the complete opposite of me. So he brought back some hero.
I asked if the personality was the opposite, too. He said no.
I’m nowhere near that righteous.
[Year X · Month X · Day X — Unknown]
Seong-ha said my idea felt fresh. I merely said a hero didn’t have to be grand—maybe he could be ordinary.
You only realize the value of ordinary things after you’ve lost them. Perhaps a hero who’s extraordinary might long for ordinariness.
[Year X · Month X · Day X — Rain]
Ju Seung-wan read Seong-ha’s pages and snickered that they were childish.
Ridiculous—I’m the protagonist!
He used to whine about why I never wrote him in. Annoying, so we ate lunch without him.
[Year X · Month X · Day X]
The test results are bad.
I heard Mom crying in secret last night. I wanted to graduate, but that may be impossible.
[Year X · Month X · Day X]
Not sure how long it’s been since I last wrote. Seung-wan says he delivered the laptop to Seong-ha.
If I had shown up he’d never have accepted it, so I asked Seung-wan. Good call, I guess. I hear Seong-ha’s looking for me. I’m nervous. I’ve become so shabby that showing myself feels shameful.
…
The entries grow shorter, farther apart; hospital stays and relapses seep through every line.
Flip.
[Year X · Month X · Day X]
In Seong-ha’s story I’m still a hero—healthy, strong, untouched by pain.
I want to remain that sort of hero forever.
The final page turns.
Plop. Plop.
Thick tears drop onto the paper—Director Kim’s, spilling only after he’s read the very last word.
“Before he left, my boy begged us again and again to keep every letter safe,” the elderly woman says, patting the time-worn notebook. “He must have wanted you to have them.”
Kim can’t answer; Rowoon gathers the faded envelopes for him. Some surely carry Ju Seung-wan’s handwriting.
This is more than enough, Rowoon thinks.
- The diary preserves the stolen drafts under Kim’s own name.
- The letters prove that laptop was never Seung-wan’s property—he only bought it on Kim’s behalf.
When the one “piece of evidence” your opponent clings to collapses, his entire story crumbles with it.
All that remains is how the director wishes to use these proofs.
Outside, giving Kim time to compose himself, Rowoon steps into the yard.
Kang Chaheon follows. “You really found that diary yourself?”
“Something like that.”
“So you’re not going to say how.”
Chaheon studies him as if he were some rare specimen. “You really aren’t the Lee Rowoon I used to know, are you?”
“Do you know how many times you’ve asked that?”
“Not a hundred yet.” Chaheon snorts. “That idiot’s brain could never spin like this. He’d be bragging all over SNS by now.”
He folds his arms. “Director says it was you who persuaded him.”
“Kind of.”
“When I heard that, I half-thought you were pushing him on purpose. I tagged along today to see what cards you had.”
“And? Satisfied with the show?”
“Now I want to know your next move.”
“That depends on the director. It’s his choice.”
“And if he decides to let it go?”
“Then that’s that. I’ll respect his choice.”
He would be lying if he said he’d feel no regret—but helping this far is already enough. He’s learned you don’t have to wait for someone else to rescue you.
Back inside, Kim clutches the diary to his chest.
“Thank you, Rowoon. Without you, I’d never have known he left these traces.”
He wipes his reddened nose. “I’m going to call that bastard. Once he knows what I have, he won’t dare act tough.”
Rowoon simply nods. The key piece is now on the board; how it’s played will be Kim’s decision.
【Current quest completion: 92 %】
The bar inches upward—still shy of the finish, but the end is finally in sight.
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