Absurdity Arrives in the Most Absurd Way

Seo Jian’s mother, Kim Yujin, asked the same worried question she always did.

“Aren’t you running low on money? Food expenses must be adding up.”

“I’m fine. I told you I have enough. If it really gets tough, I’ll let you know then, Mom.”

Seo Jian would always answer the same way. Setting aside her daughter’s refusal to accept help, Kim Yujin still wanted to take care of her. After all, Jian had become a daughter who needed a lot of looking after. Yet because money was always tight, the only thing she could give was words. Jian had always been an outstanding child no matter where you placed her, and that only made Kim Yujin feel guiltier that she couldn’t do more.

Even the time Jian had asked her to cover her sister’s hospital bill because she had no cash on hand, Kim Yujin returned the money the very next day—plus a little extra—practically forcing it into her daughter’s reluctant hands. She didn’t want to be stingy about something like this now that she was a mother.

Given Seo Jian’s circumstances, no one could truly understand how she felt. But as the person closest to her and as her mother, Kim Yujin knew better than anyone how hard it must be for her daughter. So both mother and daughter carried their own burdens and thoughts.

While Seo Jian was drinking water she had taken from the fridge, her younger sister Seo Jihyun trotted over to their mother and asked brightly, “Mom, can I go to the movies with my friends tomorrow?”

“Go ahead. Why? Short on allowance?”

“…Just a little?”

When her mother said okay, Jihyun squealed with delight, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shouting “Mom, I love you!” over and over. She snatched the thirty thousand won and dashed back to her room.

Jian gulped down the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠water, her throat suddenly dry. She didn’t feel like scolding her sister’s behavior. At that age, hanging out with friends was necessary, and she had been the same. Still, her determination to cover her own retake expenses by herself only grew stronger.

On the other hand, I had my own circumstances.

Around the time the lingering spring chill had finally eased and the pleasantly cool spring weather was beginning in earnest, my mother suddenly brought up a heavy subject.

“Your father… he might have to quit the company soon, so brace yourself.”

“…Did the hospital results come back bad?”

I asked calmly, but I already had a good idea what the answer would be.

“What can you do? It got a little better last time, then dropped again. At this rate, they say he’ll need to start dialysis within two months.”

“……”

“Once dialysis starts, your dad won’t be able to live like he does now. He’ll have to go to the hospital every single week. Obviously he won’t be able to keep working at the company the way he has been. He keeps saying he’ll hold on as long as he can, but…”

I listened to my mother with my mouth firmly shut. It wasn’t exactly shocking; I had already expected something like this to some degree. She added a few more things—how we might not be able to get any support for my college tuition if he left the company, and the usual reminder that this was my last shot at retaking the exam so I had to work hard. But more than any of that, my father’s health weighed on my mind.

I had reached the age where I worried about my parents’ health. The age where I realized the money they earned every month didn’t just fall from the sky, and where seeing them visit the hospital often created needless worries. The timing differs for everyone, but sometimes simply entering a new decade of life is enough to make you realize these things.

The usual rest area with its lonely whiteboard. Jian and I were quietly studying there. We had propped the door open with a stopper, so unless an earthquake hit, there was no chance of it closing. No need to worry.

It had already been two weeks since we cleared the third mission. Ever since then, we had been living as if nothing had happened.

“Hey, but honestly, improving your reading comprehension score quickly is really hard, isn’t it? Your reading habits are completely broken to begin with. Yours, I mean.”

“Teacher Jian. You’re supposed to help me with that. That last part was pure criticism…”

Jian shook her head and pointed at the mock exam paper with her mechanical pencil. The reading comprehension section. The traces of my diligent(?) underlining remained exactly as I had left them.

“What’s the point of underlining so enthusiastically if every time you look at an answer choice you go back to the passage and read it again? That multiplies the time by five. You’ll never finish within the time limit. It’s still only April, so let’s fix the habit starting now.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds…”

“It’s not easy, so that’s why you have to do it! I told you before—Korean is all about responding properly. Group similar things together, whether they’re squares or triangles, and read it that way. Got it?”

“The problem is telling them apart is kind of ambiguous…”

“Distinguishing them is exactly how you get to first grade, student.”

Among my subjects, Korean and English were the only ones that were even decent, but English was absolute grading and Korean only earned the qualifier “decent.” That was why I was pouring all my focus into Korean and math right now. With Jian’s help, no less.

“Ughhhhh…”

But my brain capacity wasn’t big enough to take in so much at once, so I quickly overloaded. I planted my face on the desk and let out babbling sounds that even I couldn’t understand.

“Good grief. How long have you even been at it?”

Jian shot me a sharp remark, but she didn’t say anything more. She must have been tired too, because she leaned all the way back in her chair and stretched.

Then she asked me, “By the way… do you still keep in touch with any of the kids ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from high school?”

“Out of nowhere…?”

I slowly lifted my head from the desk and looked at her.

“It just suddenly occurred to me. This is what they call small talk. It even came up in that reading comprehension passage earlier.”

“…I do keep in touch with a few, but they probably aren’t the ones you were close with.”

“Ah, right.”

Seo Jian lifted the corner of her mouth and chuckled. “You were an otaku, weren’t you? Hehe.”

“…It’s only fair if I get to ask a question back, right?”

“What?”

“Do you keep in touch with anyone?”

“…No, I don’t.”

If that was the case, she wasn’t really in a position to tease me about being an otaku. Of course, I kept that thought to myself. Talking with Jian often meant I had to dodge landmines like that.

“I only have one friend left now.”

“One? Who?”

The moment I heard that, I felt strangely odd. It shouldn’t have been weird for Jian to have someone besides me she still contacted. She used to have so many friends that it wouldn’t be strange for some of them to reach out first. But her answer was completely different from what I expected.

“Are you stupid? Who else would I be contacting besides you?”

I didn’t know how to respond to such a direct statement, but I’ll admit upfront that the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.

At Jian’s insistence, I opened Instagram. She said it felt weird to look at her own account. Though if that was the case, I didn’t understand why mine was fine.

“Don’t worry. No one will know it’s you even if they see it. No profile picture, no followers, and the username has nothing to do with your real name.”

“Hmm…”

“You have to wonder if anyone even remembers you existed in the first place.”

“…If you’re not going to add anything helpful to the friendless conversation, can you just stay quiet? That one actually stings a little.”

I was searching for the username she gave me when I set my phone down with a bored expression. Jian giggled annoyingly and said, “Want me to add something then?”

“Add what?”

“I’ll specially follow you back.”

She waved her smartphone like it was no big deal. And that was how, in the most ridiculous flow of events, I ended up exchanging my first mutual follow with Seo Jian on social media.

But when I checked her account, “What the—Jian, you have zero followers too?”

Zero followers. Zero posts. It was a completely empty ghost account.

“You think I’d be crazy enough to keep using my old account? I deleted everything a long time ago.”

“So we’re each other’s first follower, huh.”

“…Ugh, it feels meaningless.”

Since we were studying together in the rest area, we would end up messing around like this whenever we took breaks. Today we were snooping on our old high school classmates’ accounts, seeing how they were living their college lives. One friend had posted pictures from a band performance, another was clearly showing off how busy they were after joining the student council. There were photos of people drinking heavily at club membership training, and even a picture of someone with their girlfriend.

“Is it really okay ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to look at other people’s accounts like this without permission?”

In response to my question, Jian slapped me on the back as if asking why I would even wonder something so obvious.

“Why would you care about that? They’re the ones posting so people will see it. What they ate, where they went to play. This one’s even bragging about his girlfriend. Ha… I’m jealous…”

Jian seemed to have a lot of lingering attachments. That was understandable. What happened last year really had been an absurd, unavoidable twist of fate.

While I was thinking that and putting my phone back in my pocket, the old lady who ran the counter suddenly poked her head into the rest area.

“Grandma?”

“You students. This old lady’s ears aren’t working so well these days, so I’m going to turn the volume way up to listen to my novel. Close the door for a bit, would you? Bear with me? I’ll put an air purifier in here for you soon.”

She said all that in one breath, then kicked the stopper aside with her foot and locked the door before we could even answer. It was done in a single, fluid motion with zero delay.

Clack!

“Wait, Grandma! No! If you suddenly lock the door…!”

“……”

I rushed to the door in shock. But once it was locked, it wouldn’t open again. To open this door, we would have to—

“Hey, Kim Hanbin.”

“…Yeah.”

“Turn the whiteboard around.”

Whether we cleared the mission or failed it, we had to do something. Jian’s gaze was fixed on the whiteboard I had turned away because I didn’t want to see it.

Kim Hanbin and Seo Jian had no proper justification to start a mission again. However, all it took was one tiny trigger to stir their desires, and like the walls of Jericho, everything could come crumbling down in an instant. After all, both of them had far too many things to worry about to focus solely on retaking the exam.