One day, I fell in love at first sight with a girl I had just met. I thought my "springtime" had finally arrived, as she made my heart bloom with a joy I had never known. But that season withered instantly when I saw her being intimate with someone else on the very park bench where I used to jog.
I felt a sting—perhaps more than just a sting. It was a pain not caused by a physical wound, but a bloodless ache that cut deeper than any blade. That was the first time I truly understood the agony of a broken heart.
After that day, I lost faith in all women—except for my mother, who had long since left me and this world. I longed to cry in her lap, to feel her comfort, but she had departed forever, leaving a void that could never be filled. To make matters worse, my father remarried shortly after her passing and moved abroad with my stepmother for work. I was left behind—utterly alone. Not even a pet to keep me company. I woke up to an empty house; I returned from school to silence. No one asked if I had eaten or drank.
It was so different from when Mother was still here. Back then, she would wake me up for school, always preparing breakfast and a packed lunch. Even when she was busy, she would leave a simple note on the table: "I'm busy, my dear. Please eat the food I've prepared. Don't skip your meal!" Though brief, those words carved a warm smile in my heart. Being with her felt like being with the only woman I ever wanted to protect forever. Those were the irreplaceable days of my life.
But that warmth vanished after a horrific accident involving a speeding truck. Mother didn't leave us immediately; she fought for her life in the hospital for months. Father came back occasionally, but only a few times a month. I was the one who stayed by her side until the very end. Every day after school, I would politely decline my friends' invitations to hang out. "I have things to do today," I would say, hiding the truth. They would tease me, saying, "Always the same old excuses!" I could only respond with a faint, sad smile.
Despite my daily visits, her health deteriorated. She would cough up blood and frequently lose consciousness mid-conversation. Eventually, I was barred from visiting her because the doctors feared her illness might be contagious.
Both at school and at home, my thoughts were consumed by her. One day, an idea struck me: "Instead of drowning in worry, I should focus on my exams." I decided to aim for the highest marks, hoping that my achievement would bring her joy and somehow help her recover faster. I buried myself in the library, studying relentlessly.
When the exam day came, I wasn't nervous during the paper. But when the results were being handed out, my entire body trembled with anxiety. My name was called. I stood up, stiff as a robot, and walked toward the teacher's desk. I thought I had failed; my teacher's gaze was sharp and piercing. I stood there frozen, swallowing hard.
I didn't dare look at the paper until I sat back down. When I peeked at the corner, I saw a zero and my heart sank. But as I flipped it further, my breath caught. It wasn't a zero for failure—it was the trailing digit of a perfect score. I had topped the class. Tears began to stream down my face, not from sadness, but from a desperate, overwhelming joy.
My friends were baffled to see me crying. They reported it to the teacher, who rushed to my desk with a flurry of questions. I simply wiped my tears with my palms, smiled wider than I ever had, and laughed through the sobs. They all just watched me in stunned silence.
With that paper clutched in my hand, I ran home, skipping like a kindergartner who had finally gotten his wish. Without even showering, I dropped my bag and rushed to the hospital to show Mother.
But when I arrived, the air felt heavy. I saw Father sitting on the waiting bench, pale and drained of life, surrounded by my mother's relatives. In my innocence, I approached them and asked the most painful question I would ever utter: "What's happening? Did something happen?" They looked at me with such pity that my heart began to race. I felt a sudden urge to cry, sensing the truth behind their silence. Father stood up, gripped my shoulders, and looked deep into my eyes. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, his face crumpled, mirroring the grief of the others.
My chest felt as though it were being crushed by a massive boulder. And then, Father spoke the words I never wanted to hear. "Listen to me carefully, son. Be strong. Your mother... she's gone." He pulled me into a tight embrace, his muffled sobs dampening my shoulder. I stood there like a statue. My heart wasn't just heavy; it felt as though it were being torn into pieces until nothing was left. My mind went blank, as if I were drifting in a vast, white void.
I don't remember much after that, but my family told me later that I had wrenched myself away from Father's arms and ran down the hospital corridor to her room. All I found was an empty bed, the curtains fluttering in the wind from an open window. I collapsed right there and lost consciousness.
Coming back to reality, tears touched my cheeks as the memory resurfaced. I clutched my chest, feeling that old ache return. A month later, with a heavy heart and a hollow soul, I visited her grave.
I carried flowers, my legs feeling too weak to support my own weight. I didn't cry on the way there; I was just a pale shadow with a void in my mind. At her graveside, I sat cross-legged, unable to even lift my head. My hands shook violently as I tried to place the flowers—it was as if my own body refused to accept that she was under that earth.
Finally, I mustered the courage to look at her headstone. Seeing her name carved in stone broke me. I covered my face with my hands to hide my tears, my sobs quiet and jagged.
A month after her passing, Father introduced a new woman as my "new mother." I acted calm, but inside, I was screaming. "How could you bring someone new so soon?" I demanded.
Father replied calmly, "You have to understand, I found her so you wouldn't be sad anymore, so you wouldn't be alone while I'm away."
"Father!" I shouted. "Mother just left us! I don't need a new mother! Why don't you understand me? You're a terrible father!" I ran to my room and locked the door, blocking out his explanations.
Since then, I haven't spoken to him. I refused the breakfast and lunch he prepared. My heart broke further when he told me he and his new wife were moving abroad. I was to stay until graduation before joining them.
After they left, the house became a tomb—much like my heart. I go to school with a fake smile, but when I return in the evening, there is no light inside. Only the sound of my footsteps and the wind from the kitchen. I wash up, sit on my bed in a trance, and finally lie down. As I pull the covers over me and close my eyes, I whisper a single hope from the depths of my soul:
"I hope tomorrow is better than today."
The End of Chapter 1.