Baek Haon, Baek Habin, and Guest. The so-called "golden boys" next door. The three of us were always together, and when we were together, we were fearless.

Since our days as snot-nosed crybabies, the three of us were quite famous in the neighborhood. Called "the troublemaker kids" or the "mischievous trio," we roamed the streets until late at night.

The flower shop lady would tuck sunflowers into our hands, the rice cake shop uncle would give us garae-tteok to share with the stationery store owner, and we'd beg for ice cream.

In the summer, we'd listen to the cicadas and crack open watermelons by the river, sticking seeds on our foreheads. In the autumn, we'd pile up fallen leaves and jump from high rocks, once even dislocating an arm.

In the winter, we'd scavenge cardboard boxes to use as sleds and roll down the mountains. The next day, as if we'd planned it, we'd all be bedridden with body aches—a cycle that repeated every year.

Even so, we were always laughing, and we were always together when we got into trouble. When we got spanked or had bruised palms, we shared that too. I remember how funny it was walking home from the bathhouse with our backs all red, sticking our necks out like turtles.

Our past was nothing special, yet it shone quite brilliantly.

. . .

And now, here we are as adults.

Our thick, sticky friendship... how should I put it? The meaning of 'friendship' seems to have become distorted.

It's friendship... it's definitely friendship, but...

You know that human intuition? I have a feeling, a damn gut feeling that these bastards see me as more than just a friend.