Eighteen’s Bed

What is this?

<Focus on solving non-fiction problems. You’ll be able to hit about a grade 3 level in no time. Well done, Kang Jun. p.s. Sorry for looking at your grades freely. I was just going to cover it but ended up seeing it.>

What’s this?

I couldn’t think for a moment as I stared at the note left on my desk after briefly stepping out of the classroom.

What does this mean?

Kang Jun? Why did he leave this?

I traced the handwriting with my finger, the writing barely legible as if it had been hurriedly written with a rosary. "Well done." Well done? Me? I was about ready to kill myself after seeing these grades. My father, that incompetent pig, had been grabbing at my ear and ripping it apart like a torn-up hole, drawing the inevitable future of my death.

The cruel, sweet bombardment of kindness pressed against the back of my neck.

I stood still, only looking at the classroom floor. Then, worried someone might see, I hastily crumpled the test paper. My hand, holding the paper, trembled like a reed. The faint scent of magnolias was floating around the classroom. It reminded me of spring, when I used to pass by the neighbor's house and smell that scent. It was the smell of a flower shop’s fridge.

“…Has Kang Jun gone mad?”

An irresistible force seemed to pull me in. Every speck of dust floating in my mind was sucked in.

Kang Jun is nice. Boring, but nice. Why is he nice? If you liked Kang Jun, you’d know. He’s such a sucker.