This was the award winning photograph that won the campus’ art exhibition for the semester. A gruesome painting in black and white ink, portraying a girl submerged underwater. Her body was a blurred vision, sinking downwards into an abyss of blackness. Her eyes tightly shut with wrinkles creasing on her forehead. Her hands were placed in front of her face, constricting her own lips. She was confined within a small space that never existed in the deep ocean the photograph was taken at. It was titled Invisible.   “It’s beautiful,” Sung Jong stared at the photograph with wide eyes.   “It is.”   Kim Myung Soo was the name of the prodigal photographer who managed to win these art exhibitions year after year, semester after semester. He has made quite a name for himself, and anyone would’ve agreed he was exceptionally talented. His photographs were a marvelous artwork that evoked emotions on so many levels. Some people felt strangely at ease, while others were left with fascination. And to the few group of people, such as Boo Rika herself, they felt fear.   It remained strikingly beautiful, but as an admirer of the arts, Rika wondered why his subjects and choice of interests were always so depressing. As an active participant of the exhibition itself, she was well aware of Kim Myung Soo’s work through the years. It were always those monochromatic pictures that screamed a message seeking out for help. Artists tend to take anything as a source for inspiration, but with Kim Myung Soo, she couldn’t help but think his inspirations came deep from within himself.   “Too bad, you could’ve won first place if it wasn’t for him,” Sung Jong spoke, jerking her arms.   Rika laughed weakly, trying not to let those words get to her head. Yes, she could’ve won. But every single time, she managed to claim the second place because Kim Myung Soo’s agonizing photographs was what people wanted to see. She herself was an arts major focusing in illustration. Many people preferred doing digital art now, but she stayed true to the traditional ways of oil painting, watercolors, pain and ink, and more. There was an enjoyment to hold the paintbrush in her hand, letting her hand slowly trace the soft texture of paper underneath her fingers, or feeling the light from her pencils transforming the blank canvas into into a new world of possibilities and meanings.   “Meh, I guess the judges don’t like seeing people being happy as much as they like seeing sad depressing pictures.” There was an underlying bitterness in her tone, slightly mocking the first prized guy. Because a cheerful girl such as herself could not comprehend why anyone would rather look at those dark grim photographs compared to her light delightful paintings of happy people.   “Aw,” Sung Jong locked his arm around her shoulder as he took her away from the exhibition. He twirled her around so fast she nearly got smacked by the long mane of her black haired ponytail. “Maybe those judges are dark and bitter themselves.”   “Sounds like dark chocolate to me,” Rika mumbled to herself, earning an incredulous stare from her friend before he laughed it off.   “That is so lame. Maybe you’d need to work on that sense of humor first before you paint pictures,” Sung Jong shook his head in embarrassment.   Rika laughed at his teasing, heading back to their class. But before she left, she saw a tall silhouette standing in front of her painting that won second place. A grin left her lips, glad that at least someone was appreciating her artwork.     The mysterious figure was there again even when class ended, and Rika couldn’t help but feel the sheer curiosity building inside her. Upon closer observation, she noticed his lean tall frame with shoulders that were a little small for the average male. He had the upright posture that resembled a fine military man. His jet black hair smoothed out to a tolerable length right above the neck. He must be a student there.   Her feet unconsciously carried her to the said person.   “Hello there,” she began striking up a friendly conversation, smiling brightly in a way that almost reflected the object of her painting.   The male turned to her with surprise, the deep velvet ebony in his eyes b distantly. He took a step back, his lips crooked strangely, frozen in place.   “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rika said with a weak chuckle, never having received such a response from a small greeting. She was always friendly and people usually liked being around her. This person was the first who tried to keep her away.   “I didn’t think anyone would be here,” the guy said softly. His voice was so tender, singing a gentle lullaby with every syllable he spoke. The corners of his lips hinged upwards, almost resembling a proper smile. Almost.   “Well, here I am,” Rika brightly stated the obvious, noticing he wasn’t easily amused. So she cleared , linked her arms behind her back, and threw her gaze back to her own illustration. From the corner of her eyes, she noted the stranger was staring along. So she figured he must have some interest in the painting in some way or another.   “He was a man riding the train at night during a cold wintry day. He looked so glum and worn out as if the stress had overtaken him for the day. But then his phone rang. When he picked it up, his face took a dramatic turn. He spoke so joyfully, expressing happiness through every single facial muscles. His wife had called him to wish him a happy birthday and tell him she loved him.”   The guy now openly stared at her, his face nearly emotionless. “Did that really happen?” he asked monotonously.   “Partially,” Rika replied, keeping the smile on her face as she recalled that day. “He did look worn out and he did look happy after the phone call. But I like to create a story behind the subject of my art. What is it that makes them so happy? A picture speaks a thousand words, and I want that story to unfold on my blank canvas.”   He blinked his eyes. “You painted this?”   “Yup,” she exclaimed proudly, holding her hand up to him. “Boo Rika, that’s me.”   He hesitated for a while before taking her hand. It was more of an awkward against the finger rather than the formal handshake. “Kim Myung Soo.”   Rika’s eyes widened in surprise this time. He was the one who captured such revolving depressing images and still managed to win first place. Seeing him in person, she could tell why his images emitted that saddening aura. She understood why his work was always titled as Save Me, Helpless, Alone, Misery, and more.   The creator expressed himself through the creations; Kim Myung Soo perfectly captured his excruciating misery through his photographs. But she didn’t know what had made him come to this state.     That was the first time they met, but certainly not the last time. He stood in front of her painting more often, as if it had become a rendezvous for them to meet up. He knew she’d approach him, which she did, for it were the only few minutes whereby she could try to comprehend his mindset. Their exchanges usually consisted of several words; nothing more, nothing less.   “What is it that makes her so sad?” she questioned him back one time.   “Her?” Myung Soo looked at her, lost.   She pointed to the subject of his photograph, the submerged woman. “What happened to her?”   Myung Soo realized she was asking him to come up with a story to his photograph, similar to what she had done to her painting of the man laughing on the night train. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. He wasn’t much of a talker, let alone stand a story teller.   “Okay, let me guess then,” Rika told him carefully, watching his expression remain unchanged. “Maybe the girl faced a lot of rejection in her life. Everything she does never goes the way she wanted it to. So now she is giving up.”   Myung Soo didn’t respond to that, but there was a faint flicker in his eyes. His lips twitch into a crooked smile. There was more truth in her words than he liked to give her credit for.   “I once read a quote,” Rika continued, humming a little as she tried to recall it word by word. “Just because the past didn’t turn out like you wanted it to, doesn’t mean your future can’t be better than you ever imagined.”   Once again, he showed the faintest of reaction. The dim flicker reappeared, but his gaze hardened. His lips did still twitch, and now it parted silently. At some level, she knew she was speaking to him.   “That is why I like to capture my subject during their happiest moments,” Rika continued.   “Your painting is a mere illusion of one’s feelings,” Myung Soo suddenly interrupted her. “You capture the slight joy felt in a split second of the moment. But what I capture is the innermost feelings felt by every human at all times. Not everyone has the ability to laugh, but everyone relates to the tears that carries the burden of the world on one’s shoulder.”   She had really hit his rough spot, not knowing he’d be so sensitive about it. Yet, in that one answer, she finally understood why he kept capturing people’s sadness in his photographs over and over again.   “But why?” she still questioned him, her voice cracking in the cold. “Why would you show people a reflection of their burden as if they need a constant reminder o