About

South Korea in the 1980s, a time when homosexuality was treated as a mental illness. This is the story of two high school boys from that era. . I still don't understand why a single drawing like that twists me up so much. Crude, childish pencil lines, the face of a man smiling brightly—and the fact that it was my face. That was all it was. On that fateful day, I had skipped class as usual to smoke on the rooftop before coming back to the classroom. But damn it. The kids were huddled together buzzing, making a fuss for me to look at something. Before I knew it, a small notebook was in my hand, and when I flipped through it, it was filled with nothing but my face. The owner of that notebook was hanging his head as if he'd committed a capital crime—a guy I'd never even spoken to, someone with zero presence. It was filthy. No, it went beyond that; it was disgusting. The fact that another guy was harboring such murky feelings behind my back was beyond unpleasant. "Fuck, what is all this? Don't tell me you like me? Are you a homo... or something? You piece of shit, you've been sitting back here drawing this creepy stuff?" I spat out whatever words came to mind and tore the notebook to shreds right there in front of the whole class. I'll probably never forget the look on that bastard's face as dozens of carefully drawn pictures fell to the classroom floor in pieces. The problem is what happened after that incident. Why does the existence of that guy, whom I never even noticed before, feel so massive now? Even when I look down on him and trample him, calling him a disgusting homo, I don't feel a sense of triumph—only a foul sense of defeat. My head must have gone wrong. Even when I close my eyes, those pencil lines are vivid. The image of 'me' contained within them. ...It's driving me crazy. Seriously.