Going up the mountain with a light head is harder than it did the day before. It's winter in Korea, but the rays of the sun was still hot on your forehead. For a couple of times, you had to stop and take a break. Sweat was pouring down your face and the layers of clothes you wore today appeared to be a bad idea. You have rummaged around your house, went back to your school and even asked your neighbor, who didn’t like the idea of being interrupted from her baking activities, but failed to retrieve your school bag.

It wasn’t just the half-finished essay nor the expensive textbooks that made you panic the moment you learned you forgot to bring your backpack home. Inside your school bag was something else, something you can’t let anybody see.

You rushed towards the edge of the rooftop when you finally reached Daegu Sanctuary. It didn’t even occur to you that the evidence of you trying to kill yourself the other day was still present, taunting you to try tasting the peril once again. You were too focused as you searched the abandoned spot for your bag.

Hope vanished in you as you scanned the area for the fifth time. It was empty. The rooftop contained nothing except for a rusty bench. With your heart contracting after every breath you exhale, your legs collapsed into the hard ground. You were looking at the precarious sky that held no sun during that day. The clouds were absent too, giving you a clear view of the vast blue roof of the Earth.

You heard footsteps coming in your direction. Your head snapped quickly to see who has visited you at this unlikely place. It’s the same man, now wearing black leather jacket, a black scarf and black fitted hat. It seemed like black was his today’s concept as your eyes moved down to his ripped jeans that strangely bears a huge resemblance to what he wore yesterday. Your eyes moved even further until you noticed your tortoise-colored backpack in his left hand.

“You’re here again? But it’s still Thursday,” he said as he approaches you.

The two of you shared an intense staring contest, teasing each other until your eyes hurt. He also didn’t bulge and he was making it obvious that he was evaluating your appearance from head to toe.

“Is that my bag?” you asked stupidly, desperate to break the awkward environment.

The man looked down at the baggage he was holding. He scratched the back of his head- the second time he did in a span of less than half an hour- before tossing the bag under your muddied shoes. You ignored the throbbing of your head as you rummage the insides of your bag. There’s a binder, your pencil case with its broken zipper, your textbooks and your-

“You draw well,” the man said, drafting your attention back to him. He now sat at the bench, his legs crossed and his left arm extending on the bench.

Your hand reached out for a bound leather journal. It was supposed to be light, but on that moment, it felt heavy. Without much ado, you returned your things swiftly back to the bag, pausing to make sure the journal is tucked secretly between your textbooks.

“Why are you giving me that look?” the man said, his eyebrows furrowing. You haven’t realized you had been staring at him sourly. “It’s not like I stole your things. You should be grateful to me for not stealing it, although the thought crossed my mind so many times.”

He stopped talking when he realized your gaze didn’t soften in spite of the sweet-t