The Wound That Led Me Here
The deadline was closing in, so it was time to start writing. The professor was clearly looking for a sincere story. It wasn't that I didn't have one. But the moment I began putting those words on paper, I would have to face those events all over again.
Submission was due by noon. It was eleven in the morning now—one hour left. Was I really supposed to conjure an entire novel in my head just to fill three A4 pages in sixty minutes?
Some students had probably mistaken the deadline for midnight and turned it in late. Given that the average college student didn't crawl out of bed until one in the afternoon, plenty must have missed it. The thought was both unfortunate and reassuring. At least someone's score would drop below mine, which meant my own grade would rise. Ha, but this was no time for thoughts like that.
The young man sitting in front of the computer tapped the keyboard without purpose. Still unable to commit, he wrote a line only to delete it, letting the minutes bleed away.
How could any professor assign something like this on the very first day? Actually, the assignment itself wasn't bad. We'd come to university, after all; it was only right to demand real understanding instead of rote memorization. Before teaching us the psychological theories, the professor wanted honest self-understanding first. But three full pages? That felt like crossing a line. This was ridiculous.
The young man glanced at the clock in the bottom right of his monitor. Fifty minutes remained. He really had to start writing now.
He closed his eyes briefly and recalled the first lecture, along with the professor's face.
The students, already stunned by the word "assignment," wore their shock openly on their faces. I felt the same.
The professor slowly scanned the faces of the students in the large lecture hall. For a brief moment, our eyes met. Maybe it was my imagination, but it felt like the professor lingered on mine a little longer than the others. Not a good sign to be singled out on the first day.
The professor turned toward the PPT and clicked the remote in his hand.
The anger and disappointment the students felt toward the assignment seemed to ease a little. The professor's voice had shifted the entire atmosphere of the lecture hall.
The professor's expression grew solemn.
The professor looked in my direction once more.
The young man opened his eyes and stared at the blank HWP document. The clock in the bottom right read 11:36 a.m.
Fine. Let's write.
The young man began striking the keys. As he transferred memories of his childhood from his mind onto the screen, his eyes grew heavier with each page that filled.
I don't quite understand why I'm writing this so earnestly. Yet the deeper I go, the more immersed I become.
He wrote at a speed that made all his earlier hesitation seem laughable.
I used to think my life wouldn't be very interesting if written down, but now that I'm putting it into words, it feels better than I expected. If I ever become successful, maybe I should write an autobiography.
But then, as if hitting a wall, the young man's hands suddenly stopped.
Now came the part I truly had to write about. After examining the personality traits I'd shown in elementary school, it was time to address middle school. That was when I chose psychology and first learned about psychological counseling.
The young man hesitated.
Wound.
He checked the time. 11:46 a.m.
His hands began moving again.
The sound of rapid keystrokes filled the quiet room.
The more his hands moved, the smaller the empty space on the screen became. The smaller the space, the faster his fingers flew. A strange, feverish energy—whether rage or catharsis, he couldn't tell—drove the words forward.
Was it the desk? No, it was the chair. Even now, remembering it makes me feel like I nearly died.
Memories of violence and mockery that he had revisited tens of thousands of times rose vividly once more.
Still… still, I endured. No matter how desperately I wanted to die, I managed to hold on.
The vivid memories began to blur. Only one girl's face remained, faint and lingering.
No matter how painful it was, just seeing her made me happy.
Yet the clearer her face became in his mind, the more his heart collapsed in on itself.
It would have been better if we'd never met at all.
The girl sat beside the boy. In the space left with only the two of them, silence hung thick. Yet within that silence, the boy's heartbeat thundered so loudly it felt like it would rupture his eardrums.
This is my chance.
I know. This is clearly an opportunity granted by the heavens. Right now, alone with her, with no one to interrupt us, I have to tell her how I feel.
But a storm of thoughts tore through the boy's mind.
Do I even have the right to love her?
What if she actually hates me?
Even if we date, won't it just make things harder for both of us?
How could someone like me possibly...
She might end up getting bullied because of me.
I'll only make her life difficult.
Why do I have to torment myself with these thoughts?
She's so beautiful—how dare I...
She's going to a different high school anyway. What's the point?
What if she rejects me?
It might spread as a rumor.
But I still like her.
Would Mom be against it?
How would we even afford dates?
I have nothing I can give her.
Why did things turn out this way?
In the end, the boy and the girl simply drifted apart.
It really had been painful.
The young man's writing had nearly filled all three pages.
Still, if I hadn't done something so stupid back then, I wouldn't be who I am today. I never want to go through it again, but that experience undeniably shaped me. In truth, what hurt most wasn't that I couldn't date her—it was realizing how pathetic and cowardly I was. Now that we're both living decent lives… I think it ultimately turned out for the best.
Wait—damn it, I still had to write about my career direction?
The young man quickly skimmed what he'd written, deleted a few unnecessary lines, and created some space.
Career direction…
He revised the document once more.
I want to stand beside those who wrestle with the same kind of torment I once did, and endure with them. Until the day comes when they, like me now, can look back on their past and feel satisfied with the person they have become.
Assignment submitted.