All those stars are shining for you
You were the one who held me during my most precarious moments. Back then, every day was anxious, every day was edgy, and every day, I grew numb. Perhaps I just didn't want to live anymore. So, I must have hesitated a few times before climbing to the top, and quite often.
Strangely enough, on days when I climbed to a high place, the night sky sparkled madly. It was so beautiful, I almost wanted to own the night sky, embroidered with countless stars. I'd step from my high place toward the ground, hesitate, then plop down and gaze up at the star-filled night sky.
I began to feel my life was difficult from a very young age. Even before I started elementary school, I felt abandoned by my parents. When I was so young I don't even remember how old I was, I was raised by other family members. According to what the adults in my hazy memories told me, our family wasn't doing well, so my parents had to stay up late to earn money.
Of course, I was young. Even as a child, I understood. No, I was actually relieved that I wasn't abandoned. That young me thought that if I did well here, my parents would come pick me up and I could live with them. But it didn't take long for me to realize that was a vain hope.
Fortunately, my parents came to pick me up a few months later. They felt sorry for the other family members who had raised me. On the way home, I was beaming with happiness. Little did I know that at home, my younger brother and I would be alone.
Even after returning home, nothing really changed. In fact, I had more people to care for, but things didn't get any better. The first thing I remember my parents asking me was to take good care of my younger brother. Looking back, I realize my brother was in the same situation. I saw myself in him, and I raised him, who was only two years younger than me, as if I were embracing myself. I didn't even realize I was young.
Time flies. But our circumstances, by contrast, remain unchanged. By the time I realized this, I was in third grade. My parents were still busy, and I was lonely. Even in my loneliness, I had a younger sibling to look after. On the way to school or the academy, my sibling was always there, in my hand. On the way home, or when I went out with friends, my sibling was always by my side. Having raised him from such a young age, it felt natural to me now. My sibling, too, felt anxious without me.
Ten years old. At an age everyone thought was still young, I touched a fire. The reason was to feed my little brother. I couldn't bear to let my hungry little brother starve, so I touched a fire. I didn't even know how to use fire, but I touched it to serve my little brother as a parent. At first, it was a big deal. It stung and stung. But it was okay. I smiled. I loved seeing my little brother eat his fill and smile.
My friends asked, "Why do you care so much for your little brother, always taking him with you?" I opened my mouth but couldn't answer. At the time, it was just a given. It didn't need a reason. That day, my little brother said he was more comfortable and liked me than his friends, his parents, or his other family members. I simply smiled in silence in response. I was finding you quite annoying.
Perhaps around third grade, I was just getting used to everything. My dad rarely came home, my mom was busy working late into the night, my younger sibling relied solely on me, and I found it all difficult to accept. I should never have gotten used to it at that age, but I didn't even realize it.
If I had to pick the day I first fell in my life, I'd probably pick this one. In fourth grade, my parents decided to divorce, leaving us still young. Late one evening, while I was washing and drying my hair, my parents called me into the living room. They sat my brother and I down on the floor, hesitated for a few moments, and then spoke.
“If Mom and Dad break up, who do you want to live with?”
My brother didn't quite understand what he meant. But I knew all too well what he meant. That's why I kept my mouth shut even tighter. Parents were so selfish. At least to me. My brother, sitting next to me, got up from his seat, hugged my mother, and said he wanted to live with her. Of course, it was an easy question for him. He probably wanted to live with his mother, not his father, who rarely came home and whose memory he didn't have.
But I was different. I liked my dad more than my mom. Even if he rarely came home, even if he came home late at night, reeking of alcohol, I simply loved his presence. So I kept quiet for a long time, my head racing with a million thoughts. If I said I'd live with my mom, what about my dad, who would be left alone? If I said I'd live with my dad, what would happen to my younger sibling, who wanted to live with my mom? I was so suffocated I felt like I was going to vomit. In the end, my answer was the same as my younger sibling's. I felt sorry for my dad, but I couldn't bear to be separated from the sibling I'd raised.
The moment I told my mom I wanted to live with her, I burst into tears. I felt so sorry for my dad, and I thought he'd be lonely if he were left alone. I still vividly remember sobbing so hard I almost stopped breathing, and then hugging him. I also vividly remember the moistness around his eyes that day. He held me in his arms for a long time as I cried, stroking my hair, wiping my tears, and patting my back. He apologized, saying I was growing up too quickly. Honestly, I don't remember much from my childhood, but I'll never forget this day.
The day my parents returned home after filing for divorce, they bought us a cake. I swallowed back tears once again, along with the small, colorful cakes they'd only bought for birthdays.
By the time I realized that one fall might mean an eternal fall, I was already in my second year of middle school. I'd been chased to a new neighborhood by my parents, who hated each other madly. It was already my third time moving, and the new friends I'd made hated me. Back then, I felt like I'd heard every curse word you could possibly hear: "You're unlucky." "Why are you even living?" "Die." Someone even horrified me, saying that even brushing against me would bring me bad luck. One day, someone deliberately threw a ball at me, hitting me in the face and nearly damaging my eye.
For the first time, I felt like I wanted to die. For the first time, I wanted to give up on the days I'd felt were still worth living, even if they were difficult and tedious. At first, I thought it was possible. I'd glossed over these days as a storm and stress. How foolish.
It was hard enough enduring and overcoming friends who hated me to death, but something made it even harder. That stormy period, that time of crisis, changed the very fabric of human thought. As I struggled to survive, at some point, my mind filled with questions.
‘Why am I living like this?’
No one around me lived like me. Some had goals, some found what they wanted to do, some made choices at the crossroads presented to them. But I did nothing. I lived in a world where, if presented with a crossroads, it was natural to follow your parents' lead, and even if you wanted to do something, it was natural to suppress it.
For the first time, I spoke out loud about what I wanted to do. I was scared. A lot of it. Maybe it was because I was young, but there was a glimmer of hope in my heart. But that hope was quickly shattered. What I wanted wasn't what they wanted. I was left to sit at my desk like a robot, solving problems over and over again, trying to get the grades they wanted.
I hated it. I hated it more than death. The strange thing about being this age is that it forces me to say, do, and think things I would never have done before. My parents said I seemed crazy, but I didn't think so. What I said and did that day wasn't because of the times, but because it was something I had been building up over time.
I just realized it now. I clenched my fists and turned the house upside down, thinking that I didn't want to live like this anymore.I cried, screamed, and thrashed aimlessly. As a child, I thought this was the best I could do. I hoped that by doing this, my parents would let me go, even just a little. No, I was convinced that if I did this much, they would be the first to let me go.
A week later, unfortunately, nothing had changed. I was still doing what my parents told me to do, following the path they had laid out for me. The only thing that had changed was that at some point, my heart had become warped.
It was in my third year of middle school that they first saw my twisted heart. Around the time I was applying to high school, that was a very busy time for both students and teachers. I considered that time my last chance. I closed my eyes, covered my ears, and walked, knowing I wouldn't be able to escape if I didn't seize this opportunity.
My parents told me to go to the most popular, ordinary high school. They told me to go to a popular high school and devote three years to studying, pretending I was dead. Like many parents, mine placed particular importance on grades. They told me that grades were the most important thing after college, the thing that people would see, so even if I failed, I should just keep failing at school. But I'd already closed my eyes and covered my ears, so no one listened to me. After my mind became warped, I reflected on it and realized I was human. Not a puppet, played by my parents to achieve what they couldn't. I was human.
So I committed another serious crime. I secretly took my mother's seal, with which I lived, and stamped my own high school application. Oh, the high school I applied to was the worst of the worst, a specialized high school known for attracting only the most famous punks in the country. By the time my parents found out, my application had already arrived at the school. My mother shook her head, and my father didn't contact me for months after that day. During that time, loneliness hardened my heart, but I pretended nothing happened and laughed at them. I had the same thought I had a year ago: If I did this much, my parents would let me go.
With my final grades, I could have gotten into prestigious schools like science high schools and foreign language high schools. But I gave them all up. I didn't want to do what they wanted me to do anymore, I didn't want to ruin myself any further. The school I ended up at was better than I expected. Everyone was friendly, and it was my friends, who were surrounded by rumors of being a loser, who embraced me and comforted me as I moved into the dorms to escape their clutches.
Entering high school, I laughed without worry for the first time in a long time. My struggle to escape my parents finally seemed to be working, and I laughed so hard it hurt. I forgot about the past that had told me to die, and I lived my true life with my new friends. I lay on the floor in the back of the classroom and slept all day, went out through the dorm window at dawn to drink, and even skipped school without permission with my friends. I lived a truly free life.
I once heard somewhere that when you're truly happy, misfortune always comes. True to that saying, my misfortune came quickly. My father, whom I hadn't heard from in months, called every night without fail with news of my new dormitory move, and my mother kicked me out of my dorm room, where I'd been eating well and living comfortably. That day, I realized once again: I hadn't completely lost my leash; they'd just let me go for a moment.
My dad called me every day, forcing his thoughts on me. He told me my choices were all wrong, that I was a failure, and that I had to live by my own choices. The hardest part of high school was hearing his voice. He called every single day, repeating the exact words above, without a single word missing. For a day, two days, three days, a week, it was all right. I swore that even those words wouldn't shake my convictions. I figured the calls would soon stop, too.
Expectations always go awry. Dad's calls continued for a week, then a month, then two, then three. I felt like I was suffering from a neurosis. Even after hanging up, his voice and words lingered in my ears, and I struggled to come to my senses. At the same time, I was locked in my room, music blasting loudly, tears streaming down my unfocused eyes. I thought I was going crazy. I thought it was the depression I'd only heard about, and I felt like I was suffering from a mental illness. At that time, my body, mind, and spirit were all unsound.
Every day was miserable. Whether night or dawn, I'd play deafening music all day long, and just cry. It was a time when tears would well up even without doing anything. Even then, I'd get the same call from my dad every single day. I tried ignoring his calls several times, but nothing worked, and I became even more ill.
One of those days, I cried so hard my arm was soaking wet that I grabbed a box cutter from my desk. I still vividly remember the day I pulled it out, held it in my hand, and tried to cut myself. Just as I was about to do that, my dad called, and I answered him, still clutching the box cutter. As soon as I answered, I burst into tears. I put everything aside that day and begged him.
"I'm struggling, Dad. I'm so tired I could die. Please save me... Please save me, please..."
It was the first time I'd cried out to my father, and the first time I'd told him I was so exhausted I felt like I was going to die. Unable to wipe away the tears that covered my entire face, I pleaded for help. I felt like I was going to die if I continued like this, so I pleaded. The response to my first plea left me feeling cold. I hadn't understood the feeling of my blood running cold, but only that day did I understand.
"It's all because you're weak. I didn't know you were such a weak person. I'm disappointed."
The tears that had been flowing endlessly suddenly stopped, and the strength in my hands holding the box cutter and my phone vanished. The box cutter fell to the floor with a dull clatter. Maybe I had given up everything that day. I knew that no matter what I did, this situation would continue, and I didn't want to be hurt any more by the person I loved most. He was the only person who could think of me that way, and I didn't want to be abandoned by him, so I gave up everything. All I wanted that day was a single question: "Are you okay?"
The day I surrendered to everything and submitted my withdrawal from high school, which was the turning point of my life,I cried a lot. Most of the people I was with cried for me, and they watched me leave school. That day, I realized that I hadn't completely lived a bad life, knowing there were people crying for me. No one will ever know the subtle emotions I felt when I walked out the school gate alone, the one I used to cross with my friends. No one will ever know how I crossed the gate, collapsed somewhere unseen, and burst into tears, and how much I regret that choice today.
About six months after dropping out of high school, I enrolled in a liberal arts high school, the school my father had so desperately wanted. He had been more excited than anyone when I chose to drop out of a specialized high school, and he was overjoyed to learn I was going to a liberal arts high school. Ultimately, I had returned to where I was, unable to escape anything. Filled with resentment for my inability to achieve anything, I struggled to adapt to my new surroundings.
What made me feel more uncomfortable than anything else was that the same people who had treated me like a corpse in middle school were now my seniors. Although we were the same age, being older than me was more terrifying than I'd imagined. I avoided eating lunch to avoid running into them, and whenever they passed by, I hurriedly hid, fearing they might recognize me.
I felt like a criminal. I hadn't done anything wrong... but they were the ones who did it to me. As a result of living like that, I fell ill several times within two months of the new semester starting. My organs, which had been weak since childhood, were twisted, and my leg bones were broken. I could clearly feel my body rejecting this place.Another thought occurred to me.
‘Why do I have to live like this?’
Why am I forced to endure this pain and struggle in this space, led by someone else's hand? I couldn't understand it, so I decided to make a last-ditch effort. Having survived for nearly a year, I vowed to succeed this time. I began my final struggle to break free from the leash that was strangling me.
Just when I was finally making all my plans, things started to happen. And one after another. First, there was the fight between my mom and my brother. That night, they were arguing loudly, raising their voices. During the fight, my mom said something to me that she shouldn't have said.
“Will you live like your older sister?”
It felt like a knife was stabbing my heart. My mother knew how much I'd struggled, yet she said those words. I wondered what it was like to live like mine, to be so driven by malice. That morning, tears streaming down my face, I packed my bags and left home. I always felt sorry for my parents. I'd never once complained to them, and no matter how much I hated them, I'd just keep it bottled up inside, never let it out. I even worked part-time to earn some pocket money, so I didn't have to ask for their help. I tried so hard, but in their eyes, even my efforts seemed like nothing more than a deviation.
I left home at dawn and went to my friend's house. My friend patted my back as I cried, and I didn't come home for three days. The first day, I didn't even hear from him. The second day, he called, but I didn't answer. The third day, even my father called.
I realized then that my dad's phone calls were always a problem. As soon as I picked up, he'd scream and swear at me. "Are you finally crazy?" "Is that what you're doing?" "You rotten bitch." Just listening to them was too much for my brain to handle. So I vented my feelings to him.
"At least to me, Dad, you have to be a sinner. You have to live your life feeling sorry for me, and you can't even think about forgiveness. And don't ever contact me again. I don't need money or anything, so don't ever contact me again."
That day, I poured out all the things I'd never dared to say to my dad, and that was our last contact. That phone call forced me to confront things I'd tried so hard to ignore: that I was nothing but a source of pride to him, that he loved my grades, not me, and that he was embarrassed that he'd pressured me into dropping out. He'd never been sincere to me, not even for a moment. I knew that, but I didn't want to be abandoned by him, because I loved him so much, so I ignored him. At some point, perhaps, I realized that to break my chains, I had to cut this relationship. Using that phone call as an excuse, I cut off everything connected to him: the liberal arts high school he'd urged me to attend, my studies, my grades, my contact. And so, my path has been marked by two dropping outs.
I cut my long hair. It was like a promise to myself, that I would finally be free. I ran a hand through my now-short hair and let out a hollow laugh. All I had to do was cut that person off... What was so difficult? How much love did I have to give him? I felt sorry for my past self, pathetic. But I let out a deep breath, thinking that I was different now, that I would be happy now.
Everyone has a hole that can never be filled. Perhaps for me, that hole was family. One night, when friends from out of town came to visit and went down to my country house, we had a few drinks. Since I'm not a big drinker, I downed two cans of beer, and my friends collapsed on the floor. They all fell asleep, and I burst into tears. I cried, frustrated, wondering why I still felt lonely, despite all the people around me.
I cried out in despair, overwhelmed by loneliness, but I covered my mouth with my hand, worried it might wake my friends. When I felt like I couldn't bear it any longer, I left the house, filled with the stench of alcohol, and climbed to the roof of a nearby building. My eyes were still unfocused, and I was still crying.
When I climbed up to the rooftop and looked down, everything seemed tiny. Then, I looked up at the sky and saw countless stars shining brightly. As soon as I saw the sky filled with stars, I collapsed on the rooftop floor.
“I’m scared… I don’t want to die… I want to live.”
Yes, I never truly wanted to die, not even for a moment. I only had a small desire to stop. I never truly wanted to die. I collapsed on the rooftop and sobbed loudly. I cried so hard I could barely breathe. Looking back now, I think I was comforted that day by the stars that filled the sky. If I were to strive to shine on my own, the stars in the sky would shine for me.
That day, all the stars I looked up at from the rooftop were shining for me. Likewise, all the stars that decorate the sky now will shine for you.
We would like to inform you that this article was written by WORTH IT COMPANY K-MI.
