The Guy Who Can't Do It Alone

They say you never truly know how your life will pan out.

Is that right?

It had been a month and a half since I was discharged from the military. Before returning to college, my plan had been rock solid: study diligently, hit the gym regularly, work a part-time job, and maybe even land a girlfriend. And yet, right now...

"B Long! B Long! Hurry!"

"Holding the angle," I answered, flicking my mouse across the pad.

I clearly spotted him first and fired, but somehow I dropped dead instead.

"Ah, damn it! Hey, that bastard is totally hacking!"

The second the words left my mouth, my teammate dropped the guy who had killed me.

"Turned his hacks off so he wouldn't get caught, huh."

"Bullshit."

Amid snickers and chuckles through our headsets, we somehow scraped together a win. Glancing down at the clock on my monitor, I saw it was already 2:00 AM.

"I'm heading out first."

"Come on, why? Just one more game."

"We won, so end on a high note. If I'm dead tired at work tomorrow, it's gonna suck ass."

"Just one more, man."

"Dude, go do something with your life too. Aren't you filing for reinstatement next week? Or not?"

Bloop—

With a short chime, my friend vanished from the voice channel.

"Could've just played one more."

Granted, one game always turned into two, and two turned into three. If we kept going, the sun would rise, and I would be crawling into bed just as he was dragging himself to his part-time job.

"Acting like he's the only one who's ever worked a shift."

Well, technically, he was the only one working right now. It hadn't been that long since my discharge, after all.

I'll hit the two-month mark first, then look for a job.

Right as the thought crossed my mind, the matchmaking queue popped. With a resonant thud, all stray thoughts vanished from my head.

"Ah."

Why did people have to lock in Leona? I harbored zero hope that she might be a smurf. Once the match ended, she was utter trash, exactly as expected. Why hadn't they deleted that champion from the game yet?

"Seriously, dogshit game."

Grumbling under my breath, I queued up again. The queue popped, and when that finished, I queued once more. Before I knew it, the morning sun was creeping up over the horizon.

"Guess I should hit the sack."

The sight of the morning sun brought a sudden wave of fatigue crashing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠down on me. It was also around the time my parents got ready for work. Slipping under the covers, I unlocked my smartphone.

Chup-chu— chup-chup-chu—

Denpa denpa kai-denpa~

Top 5 God-Tier Items for Living Alone!

After mindlessly melting away the hours on short-form videos, I finally drifted off to sleep.

"Son."

"Huh?"

I had just finished eating and was about to head back to my room when Mom called out from the kitchen.

"What have you been up to these days?"

"Uh... just chilling."

"Don't you think it's about time you started doing something?"

A sudden sense of calendar reality jolted back to life. I realized the weather had grown noticeably hotter. Discharged in late May, and now it was already July. That meant the two-month grace period I had promised myself was already long gone.

"Got it."

At my reply, Mom simply turned away to finish tidying the kitchen. That nonchalant reaction exerted an immense pressure—far heavier than any nagging ever could.

Returning to my room, I slumped down in front of the computer. I had planned on jumping straight back into games right after eating, but my hand hesitated over the client.

What should I do?

I tried looking for part-time jobs, but nothing caught my eye. Easy, effortless gigs were practically nonexistent. Browsing online community boards, every job posting that stood out came with comments warning people to run for their lives.

Backbreaking, mind-numbing, or life-threatening. If I were flat broke, I probably would have sucked it up and picked one. But right now, I was living through the wealthiest period of my life. My bank account, padded with all the monthly military pay I had scrimped and saved, felt remarkably sturdy.

"Maybe I should study instead of working."

Invest in myself until returning to school next year. Wouldn't that yield far more down the line than grinding away at some random minimum-wage part-time gig? All right. My mind was made up. I would study six hours a day.

Conveniently, there was something I had dabbled in before enlisting: TOEIC. I wanted to travel abroad someday, and it was essential for job hunting anyway. Besides, once I returned to college, I probably wouldn't have time to study English.

"Good."

Bolstered by sudden resolve, I pushed myself up from my seat. If Mom hadn't dropped that hint, I probably would have kept idling away. But I knew myself all too well—resolutions formed in isolation rarely lasted. Opening my door, I headed straight for the master bedroom.

"What brings our resident freeloader out of his cave?" Dad greeted me, looking up from his smartphone. He wasn't dropping passive-aggressive hints or giving me the side-eye.

If he wanted to grill me, he'd be way more direct about it.

Brushing it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠off, I spoke casually. "I'm gonna start studying English tomorrow."

"Done goofing around?"

"I was planning to goof off longer, but Mom said something."

"Did she? Well, don't force it if your heart's not in it. From what I've seen, you don't really have the head for studying."

"Aren't I pretty decent with languages, though?"

"Sure, sure. Do whatever you want." Dad waved ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his hand dismissively.

I nodded and stepped back into the living room. Sitting on the sofa with the remote in hand, Mom glanced over at me.

"You're going to study?"

"Yeah. You heard?"

"You're right next door, of course I heard. Hang in there."

With a brief nod, she turned her attention right back to the television. Whenever I said something, she always gave me the benefit of the doubt. She seemed quieter than Dad, but that was only when serious matters came up.

Heading back to my room, I pulled out my phone and dialed. The ringing tone dragged on for quite some time before the call finally connected.

"Ah, what!"

"Noona, what are you doing?"

"I told you I was hanging out with friends!" The background was deafeningly noisy. "Did Mom say something to you or what?"

"No, not that. Just wanted to tell you I'm studying starting tomorrow."

"What?"

"I said I'm starting to study tomorrow!"

"Why the hell are you telling me that?!"

"Just 'cause?"

"Ugh, whatever, just hang up!"

"Yeah. Make sure you don't get trashed and drunk-dial your ex."

Instead of a reply, a sharp click sounded in my ear. She had hung up.

Sitting back down at my desk, reality finally began to sink in. Starting tomorrow, I actually had to study. If I had kept the resolution to myself, I would have quietly let it slide, but I had declared it to the entire family. Now, every once in a while, they would ask: How's studying going? Getting a lot done? When's the test?

To avoid standing there tongue-tied with nothing to say, I genuinely had to do it.

"Yeah. From now on, it's strictly studying."

Beep-beep-boop—

At the electronic chime from the front door, I hastily shut down Meetube. When I stepped out, Mom had just returned home from work. After greeting her, I slipped back into my room and sat down again.

I reached for my summary notes, only for a sharp pang of guilt to prick my conscience.

What on earth am I doing?

It had been a week since my grand declaration, and the number of days I had actually focused was exactly three. After that, while I played fewer games, my daily routine had reverted right back to how it was before.

I didn't tell my family just so I could feel guilty while gaming.

Slumping deep ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into my chair, I muttered to myself. "I'm hopeless, seriously..."

Should I actually sign up for a study cafe or a reading room? Would being surrounded by people studying make any difference? Hard to say. At this rate, I would probably just stare at my smartphone there too.

My head's a mess, maybe a quick game...

The sudden thought made me smack my own cheek. The vow to study six hours every single day had evaporated without a trace. All I did now was keep summary sheets pulled up on screen just to uphold the bare minimum appearance of studying for my family.

Staring blankly at the monitor, my eyes caught sight of the recommended videos.

Why had that popped up in my algorithm? Maybe because I had left calm, hours-long instrumental music playing in the background over the past few days. The thumbnail showed only a desk: a few sheets of paper, a laptop, and a woman's hands.

"A study stream?"

I voiced it like a question, but deep down, a spark lit up. That's it. Delegate the role of monitoring my study habits to an unspecified mass of internet strangers.

I immediately searched "study with me" on Meetube. Several livestreams and multi-hour VODs popped up, featuring both men and women. Some live broadcasts had hundreds of viewers, and the uploaded recordings racked up tens of thousands of views.

Wait, can you actually make money while studying?

Talk about killing two birds with one stone. I ordered a webcam on the spot.

After looking up basic broadcast settings, I leaned back. "It arrives tomorrow anyway, so might as well rest until then."

Since I would be stuck doing nothing but studying starting tomorrow. After gaming into the early hours, I crashed into bed.

When I woke up, the webcam had already been delivered. I mounted it on the bookshelf beside my desk. With the quick research I had done, setting up the broadcast took virtually no time at all. Hooking it up to streaming software was child's play.

I set the webcam feed to fill the entire screen, capturing a clean view of my back as I sat at the desk.

"For the title... standard format first, then... well, not much else to write."

I plunged straight into studying. The pressure of being live finally caught up with me. The thought that unknown strangers might be watching made slacking off unthinkable. Forty minutes of studying, ten minutes of rest. Another forty minutes, then ten minutes. The pressure of potentially being watched was surprisingly effective.

Three days after starting the study stream, the urge to fool around hadn't surfaced once. However, during my break times, I found myself doing the exact same thing every single time.

Checking the viewer count.

Just turning on a stream doesn't mean people will actually show up, huh.

Occasionally, I saw it tick up to 1. But it would quickly drop right back to 0. Not a single message ever appeared in the chat. A strange stubbornness began to brew inside me. Not one person? Not a single soul was watching? It was the exact same kind of study stream everyone else was doing!

Until I went to sleep, I racked my brain trying to figure out how to get viewers in. The next day, I created two more broadcasting channels—one on OnAiri and one on Live Cast. While I was at it, I finalized a dedicated Meetube account specifically for streaming.

Let's see if nobody shows up now.

That was my grand strategy. And with breathtaking consistency, there was zero response. One day, two days, three days. A week, half a month.

"Let's see if you really won't click this."

By the last week of July, I typed out what I considered my ultimate masterstroke of a title.

The result?

August rolled around. Up to this day, my peak concurrent viewership was four. Even then, by the time I wrapped up studying, they had vanished without a trace. By this point, my tension was completely shot. Someone's watching? Who?

Out of habit, I booted up the stream and studied until sheer boredom began to gnaw at me. Nobody was here today either, so what was the harm? Just a quick break.

I queued up. A quick round tumbling through the Rift would wake me right up. I had already double-checked that the viewer count stood at a flat zero. Cracking my knuckles, rolling my neck, I locked in my focus. My mind cleared up as if I had chugged several cups of iced americano.

The first match, I got hard-carried by my team. The second match, I pulled off a decent carry myself. Wrestling with whether to queue for one more or call it a day, I casually glanced over at the streaming software. I figured my picture-perfect highlight reel had been cleanly recorded.

Wait, what?

There was a viewer. And wonder of wonders—my very first chat message!

It was a single message that made me choke on my own breath.