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I was born premature.

My mother's water broke at 37 weeks, and perhaps because of that, I have suffered from congenital heart disease my entire life.

Taking medicine has been a part of my life since I was a child. I had to take seven pills a day, and of course, the dosage only increased as I got older.

As my condition worsened, I spent half of my life in the hospital. Because of that, there were many foods I never tasted and many places I never visited. Needles were stuck in my hands every day, and the space around my bed was always filled with the mechanical beeping of monitors. Except for when I was eating or sleeping, I spent my time watching the birds chirping and flying outside the window.

Into this repetitive, dull life of my childhood, a boy entered my hospital room. He was loud and energetic. His name was Kang Siwoo, and he was six years old, the same age as me at the time. He would constantly climb over from his bed to mine and chatter away, while I just ignored him. He had a cast on his leg, but he walked too well for someone with a broken leg, and the woman who seemed to be his mother scolded him every time he walked around.

He seemed like he would leave soon, but he stayed for three more months, and during that time, we became somewhat close. He always asked me where it hurt, but I never told him. When I was with Siwoo, I didn't feel like a person with heart disease; I felt like just a normal person. Siwoo and I were so different that it was hard to tell how we even became friends.

Siwoo was social and became friendly with the nurses within a few days of being admitted, whereas I, who had lived half my life in the hospital, still wasn't close to them. Maybe it was because I lacked social skills and rarely smiled.

It was another day when Siwoo and I were sitting on my bed talking. I wasn't moving much, as usual, but unlike usual, my breathing was fast and my heart hurt. Siwoo noticed something was wrong and called my mother, and as soon as she arrived, my vision blurred and I collapsed.

Fortunately, I was on the bed, so I wasn't badly hurt, but I didn't come out from under my covers for days because I had been hiding my illness from Siwoo. Having been caught with heart disease made me feel like a criminal. As this situation continued, Siwoo came to the side of my bed and shouted bravely. "I'm going to become a doctor and cure you!!" After Siwoo was discharged, he kept in touch even outside the hospital, and this relationship continued through middle school and high school. Ah, of course, I think I was hospitalized dozens of times by the time I reached my senior year of high school. Then, on January 1st of the year I—no, we—turned twenty, when Siwoo's family and mine gathered to welcome the New Year, Siwoo whispered in my ear.

"I got into medical school."