There are two types of people in this world.

The tall ones.

And short ones.

The tall of height who look cool and dashing just standing still, let alone walking down the street. Let alone doing things every person does, no matter how normal. How cool to be so tall.

The short of height who look adorable and cute. The ones you just want to put in your pocket and keep for eternity. Even if their height is their greatest complex, all you can say is, “How cute.” How cute to be so small.

You may be wondering if there’s a middle ground. You may be thinking to yourself that I missed a select group of people. The “average ones.” The ones who are of average height. The eighty percent. The ones setting the bar for the rest of the population. For the twenty percent. For the short and the tall. You either sink or swim. You either rise above the water line or fall below it. And, in the case in which you’re the water itself, you can walk by normally.

You can inconspicuously hide in plain sight.

You go unseen by those you pass by.

You attract little to no attention.

Just another square foot of water. Just another face. Just another average body.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing bad about being the standard. I find myself to be standard at my height. My legs are longer than others but my torso is also shorter as a result. Shirts look longer on me. Jeans are harder to shop for. But, my height is standard. I’m average. Just because people don’t give me a second look on the street doesn’t mean I’m less than those they do glance at. It just means they don’t see it.

They don’t see me yet. The twenty percent may be attractive, cute, enrapturing to the eye but, at first glance, that’s all they are. In the time it takes them to pass by, there’s no substance. Tall or short. That’s all they are. Just a person you glance at on the street. Because they too aren’t seen yet. They aren’t seen for who they are unless you get to known them. Just another person passing by on their way to wherever they might be headed.

Just another resident doctor who has years and years ahead of them of taking care of another face. Of an eighty percent. Of a twenty percent. Of the one hundred percent. Because at the end of the day, we all pass by one another, no matter our height. We’re all a part of the one hundred percent.

Someday, we’ll all die. We’ll die differently but, it’ll still happen. Sure, its morbid to think about but once you embrace that fact, life becomes a lot more interesting. Spontaneous. And, fun. In the end, if you can say you had fun, that you were happy, no matter your definition of the word, then death is nothing. Death is nothing in the face of you who lived life to the fullest.

Unfortunately, at times, it’s those who cannot stop our deaths that have to live with the consequences, even if we come to terms with it as we breath our last breaths.

This was the case for Miss Victoria Song, doctor-in-training.

This was the curious case of Miss Victoria Song that the nameless, unseen by all living people but me, woman explained to me as we looked on at her from an afar table, eating breakfast in a small lounge near the entrance of the hospital. Many other people were here, enjoying the warm air that blew in from the vents above, counterbalancing against the biting cold that laced the air outside.

Thankfully, however, the demon and the spirits attached at my hip were allowing us – or rather, just me I suppose – to look on inconspicuously as they observed from the safe distance that was the waiting room.

“They say that a person can live with a tumor for years without even knowing. At least, that’s what they told me.” Her gray eyes, devoid of color, stared on at the quiet woman who ate mindlessly, her own mind obviously somewhere else. “That’s what they told me to make me seem normal. To tell me that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that that a tumor in my brain developed to the point in which the chances of it becoming cancerous were high. So high that they needed to remove it.”

She didn’t falter, her gaze dead set on me now as she told it to me straight. As though she had come to terms with it long ago. “I died of internal bleeding. The tumor was too big and despite them being able to take it out, I wasn’t able to recover.”

She smiled then, because she was probably thinking the same irony I was. She was probably thinking that the fear everyone had, that many didn’t have to worry about, was what killed her in the end. “I died on the surgery table. Mere minutes after my surgery was declared a success.”

And yet, no matter how morbid it sounded, there was something beautiful about the way she talked of her death. There was something beautiful about her next words.

“So, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. My circumstances weren’t the best, my chances weren’t that high, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. In the end, my parents were smiling. Because I told them to. Because my younger brother needed them to be strong. Because I needed to be strong for them too, I’d like to think I was smiling then, even as I breathed out my last. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. There’s something liberating about that, isn’t there? There’s something relieving about that statement. In the end, we’re all humans, spirits, or what have you. In the end, you can put the blame on someone to make it easier. But, admitting that it’s no one’s fault, accepting the reality of it all with open arms, makes the stress go away.

It makes the anger disappear.

It makes the regrets seem so far away that you can’t even remember them anymore.

And everything slides into place.

And in the end, you’re smiling.

Or maybe, I’m too philosophical for my own good. I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand it all. But, still, that doesn’t mean I found it any less beautiful. Any less of than what it was.

“But, she thinks it was hers.”

The nameless woman sighed, as one would at the sight of a small child crying over spilt milk. An accident that wasn’t their fault. That wasn’t anyone’s fault.

“She always visited me, each and every day. She’s the one who convinced me to have the surgery. She told me the decision was mine in where I would want to be tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. What I wanted to do was my decision. Where I wanted to be was my decision. Whether that be here or there or anywhere.

“And, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it, because it was a decision I made for myself. Even if I died young. Even if I had many years left to live. Because all I wanted to do was smile. All I wanted to do was smile as I felt the world fading away. As everything turned white before I became what I am now. A “wandering spirit.” A ghost of sorts, I suppose. I’m not sad. I don’t regret a single thing.”

She paused, her thumbs twiddling in her lap, her eyebrows furrowing downwards.

“But, she does. She thinks she forced me into it. And,” she turned to me once more, finally, at long last, specifying the request she had to make of me, “I want you to tell her it’s not her fault.”

It’s not anyone’s fault.

That was the nameless woman’s message. It wouldn’t end so simply with saying it, however. I had to make Miss Victoria Song believe it.

How?

Well, that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it?

“So,” he leaned his head back, peering upside down at me from where I paced back and forth behind the couch. I was being antsy. Honestly, I couldn’t stay still even if I wanted to. “What are you going to do?”

That had been the, if I hadn’t missed a single one during this entire time that I’ve been lost deep in my own — much more important than him —thoughts, sixth time he’s asked me that question. The first time, I yelled at him to shut up. Because his deep, rasping voice distracted me. The second time, I told him to quit it and leave me alone. Because I’m sure he had better things to do. The third time, I merely sighed

. Because his insistent was wearing me out. And for the fourth, fifth, and now sixth time, I didn’t answer him. I refused to.

If I did, he’d win. What would he win? Why did it matter if he did? The answers to those particular questions aren’t important. What’s important is that I refuse to let Mr. Demon successfully annoy me for long periods of time. Short periods of time, I can handle. Long periods of time, it’s enough to drive me insane.

Though, perhaps, right at this very moment, I am insane.

Maybe I am insane for thinking I could possibly help a dead person help a living person in the first place. Maybe I am insane for still walking back and forth and back and forth, those almond shaped, devilish eyes on me the entire time. For still trying to figure out the answer to the question the owner of those pitch black irises had posed to me so many times.

What am I going to do?

Well, the last thing I expected to do next was be at my front door, answering the doorbell that someone frantically pounded as though their life depended on it. The last thing I expected was – even though I should have known he was coming since well, he told me he would be – Sehun along with two other boys standing at my front door.

But, I can’t say I didn’t expect the fact that the two boys were particularly good-looking. Sehun’s standards are high, after all. And no, that’s not just me indirectly complimenting myself. Though, I suppose I should take it as a compliment, eh? It’s not every day that the school’s local pretty boy becomes best friends with the girl who wears the farthest thing from the latest trends.

I’m not talking about me, of course. I’m totally fashionable. The epitome of all that is marvelously fashionable. Snapbacks? I own at least twenty. Chiffon shirts with designs that make absolutely no sense? I wear one every other day.

Okay, maybe I’m rambling again. Maybe I’m lying through my teeth. Maybe I’m none of what I just said – besides the part about being the big baby’s best friend. You can be the judge of what was true and what wasn’t for yourself – if any of it was at all. I’d love to hear your thoughts, to be honest.

Anyway, if there’s one thing you can be sure of, it’s that Sehun’s a pretty good-looking crybaby and he certainly made friends who were the former of those adjectives.

“For some reason, I’m not surprised you look surprised.” Sehun grumbled beneath his breath as he pushed past me, not bothering to greet me further than that. Not bothering to introduce his friends as he kicked off his shoes and entered the living room without hesitation, where he disappeared behind the doorway.

So then, since my best friend was currently throwing a fit, I decided to turn my attention to his “friends” of the same . “Hello, my name is Park Sora and I’m best friends with that whining fool.” I pointed back at where he went with my thumb, hearing his protests right after. A few curses sprinkled here and there. “Are you in the same boat as I am, then?”

“Well, there’s a swimming pool and free food. Not to mention they keep the deck clean.” The one with a sharp jawline – and, apparently, a just as sharp tongue – spoke with a large grin on his face, “So, I don’t mind being stuck at sea all too much.”

I heard Sehun yell faintly for the boy to stop playing along with me. And, even though I had known him mere seconds, the clever boy didn’t seem the type to be put off on doing something if he was forbidden from it. Quite the opposite actually, “I’m, who am unfortunately stuck gazing at first class from afar for now, Jongdae. You probably won’t remember my family name anyway.”

“Try me.” I challenged, and he accepted it without a moment’s hesitation. Why didn’t Sehun introduce me to this gem of a man sooner? I can imagine the entertaining conversations we’ll have already.

“Kim.”

“You’re right.” I nodded, pursing my lips in mock surprise, “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I don’t know whether to laugh or continue to stand here silently.” The boy beside Kim Jongdae mused out loud, as though to himself. His friend thus took it upon himself to introduce him.

“This is Minseok.” He explained simply, holding both hands out, palms up, as though he were trying to sell me on something. On whatever wonderfully funny nonsense he spewed then, “You won’t remember his last name. For serious this time.”

For serious this time? For serious, why did it sound like he was just saying that to get a laugh out of me? And why did it work?

Maybe because I find funny charming. Witty funny in particular. Flirty funny is of a different variety. A different level that I never want to stop my elevator on. That I repeatedly click the “Door Close” button on, hoping it never stops there. But, it always does.

It always does.

Much to my dismay.

“Well, what is it?” I asked, only to receive an answer that left me with a new nickname for the charming Kim Jongdae.

“Kim.” Minseok responded, deadpan. So then, it’s quite obvious what nicknames I had chosen for Jongdae and Minseok, isn’t it? It’s not? Well then, let me enlighten you with my conclusion.

Kim Jongdae, the Troll.

Kim Minseok, who played along well with said troll, the Goat.

Have you ever read that children’s story? “Three Billy Goat’s Gruff?” There’s a troll under a bridge and three goats. No? I never did understand the moral of the story either. Then again, it’s been awhile since I’ve heard it. And, it wasn’t exactly all too popular either.

Now that I think about it though, the little guy with the big cheeks seems a bit too cute to be called a “Goat.” Perhaps, “Lamb”? A lost lamb who looked at me with big eyes then and said, “So, can we come in or can we come in?” 

“Of course.” I made way for le Troll and the Lamb, who threw smiles my way as they passed by, only managing to be three seconds into getting off their shoes when a voice boomed from the living room.

Sehun’s voice.

Sehun’s irritated voice as he screeched with a pitch that rivaled even the Gumiho’s banshee yell.

“What the ?”

“Stop cursing, Oh Sehun! My grandmother is home!” I screamed right back, the front door still open. The neighbors must have heard. They must have. And, the fear of them complaining to my Grandfather who was already less than happy to be stuck in a hospital bed for an unspecified amount of time had me pushing Minseok and Jongdae inside quickly and promptly shutting the door behind him.

Who yelled?

Not me.

Certainly not the granddaughter of the Park family.

Definitely not me.

“Well, he scared the out of me.” Sehun complained from the living room, as though I could see who he was talking about. As though I had forgotten who I had left there earlier, before I answered the door. Because I did. I, so stupidly, did.

“Who?” And I was rewarded with an answer as there stood Mr. Demon, Bang Yongguk, biting into a frozen fruit, ice cream bar. Once he laid his eyes on me, he popped said bar from his mouth and grinned, pearly whites shining.

“Yo.” He waved his ice cream bar as opposed to his hand, casting glances at the two males behind me before saying that one syllable that seemed to ooze in mocking once more. Mocking who? Who else, but me?

“Older brother?” Was Minseok’s guess from behind me. If I were related to Yongguk, no. No, I don’t even want to dwell on that thought. On that little imaginary world that would encompass many sibling fights on a daily basis, either of us losing chunks of our hair in the process, and I’d make sure as all hell it wasn’t me.

“Not exactly.” Was his answer as he twirled his ice cream in circles, practically prancing across the floor in pure, unadulterated glee at the fact that he had been able to scare Oh Sehun.

Oh Sehun, who I could tell from that look he was giving me figured I was hanging out with Mr. Demon all day. Which, well, it was the truth, wasn’t it? I mean, he was there. Along with a spirit woman, a Gumiho, a Xiezhi, a Haechi, and the ever-loving, best friend duo of a Tokebi and Dokkaebi.

“Since you’ve finally gotten what you’ve come for, would you kindly do me the honors of leaving?” I gestured to the door extravagantly, raising my eyebrows at him as I showed him the cheeriest smile I could muster. The greasiest smile I could muster. The biggest eyes I could manage, fluttering my eyelashes all the while. Just to give him the creeps. Just to make his goose bumps raise so much he couldn’t stand being there for even a single second longer.

And, it worked.

My creepy expression worked as he walked passed me with a curious look on his face, his eyebrows knotting together as he got up close and personal with my awfully eerie smile. But, of course, that was not the end. That was not the end of his less than welcome appearance.

As soon as my bottom hit the couch, as soon as my shoulders relaxed, as I awaited the sound of wood slamming shut, his voice called out to me. Or rather, to Minseok. To the lost little lamb who never looked more confused, during this entire span of less than five minutes in which I had known him, than he did now.

“By the way,” he began, gaining the attention of the two boys who had been getting comfortable along with Sehun, who was glaring so hard it looked as though his eyes would burst into flames. Whatever way Bang Yongguk had managed to scare him had left him anything but pleasant at the moment.

So then, there he was. There he was, peeking into the living room with a scheming look on his face. With a suspiciously victorious smile on his face, “To answer your question from earlier,” and he made sure, he made positively sure, to look at me when he said those next words of his that couldn’t have been farther from the truth, “I’m Sora’s boyfriend.”

And here I was, pressing the “Door Close” button so much my finger was sore. But still, pushing it and pushing it because Mr. Demon’s humor was the kind I disliked with a passion. Only with him. Only when it came to him.

He had gotten his revenge. He had effectively pissed Oh Sehun off, as though that’s why he decided to come over while everyone, including the nameless woman I was to help, stayed at Ms. Kim’s house.

“Are not!” I yelled childishly, shamelessly childishly, at him and I could practically hear his maniacal laughter. I could practically see that -eating grin of his despite him having long since disappeared from view.

“Am too!” He responded, from somewhere far away, before I heard the front door slam shut behind him.

“He is?” My grandmother, who had been with him the entire time in the kitchen before now, asked. And, stop me if I’m wrong but, was that giddiness I heard in her voice? Did she actually sound like she wanted it to be true?

Really, I will never understand what she sees in him. Then again, never say never, right? I didn’t answer her in the end, not wanting to receive the silent treatment from my best friend for longer than I needed to.

Because, as popular belief dictates, excessive denial is a sign of that which is being denied being true.

All that aside, peaceful times followed Mr. Demon’s departure. Along with his chaotic ending to the afternoon came a calm beginning to the evening.

What began was quite the eventfully, uneventful night with Sehun and his friends: Mr. Troll and Mr. Lost Lamb. We had dinner with my grandmother and followed it up with a spirit free, demon free, DVD movie – much to Oh Sehun’s pleasure. Harry Potter. A classic.

At least, a classic in my grandparent’s house, seeing as how the DVD selection was limited to three choices at any given point in time: Harry Potter, Twilight, and Hello Ghost. I’ve watched the latter with Sehun three times. I’ve cried each time. He cried each time. And well, I guess he wanted to look cool in front of his friends – the reason he chose Harry Potter in the end.

And, you know what?

I felt a bit more normal by the end of the night.

But now, right now, I would say I’m just as normal. Because being sane and being normal are two different things, are they not? Because even if life was seemingly normal, that doesn’t meant I’m sane.

Most people wouldn’t even want to begin to consider insanity as a possibility in their quote unquote normal lives. But, you know what? I’ve never been the type to think traditionally.

But, you know what? Maybe I am certifiably insane for doing this. For showing up here without a plan. For showing up at the hospital like this so abruptly. So suddenly.

Without a clue as to how to go about relieving the worries of someone I had never met before. Someone I have yet to see completely. For having long since accepted this confusing, ambiguous new lifestyle of mine that had me fraternizing with five spirits and a demon. Maybe I am insane.

But, you know what, was I ever really sane to begin with?