52 Weeks

It’s been two years since I failed the university entrance exam. How old am I now? Twenty? I don’t even know anymore. I lost track of time the moment I locked myself in my room, playing online games all day.

"Announcement: The server will be shut down in 10 minutes due to new government regulations."

The fuck? The admin must be tripping.

"Welp, we only have one year left to live, so we should find better things to do. God bless us."

Ain’t no way. I’ve been scammed for the past two years—I gotta call a lawyer.

Knock knock.

“Luke, sweetie.”

A familiar voice—one I haven’t heard in a while.

“What? If it’s breakfast, just leave it in front of the door.”

“Luke, have you heard the news? Please come out, son. We need to talk.”

Hearing such a gentle tone from my old man—the same man who was once so disappointed in me that he stopped talking to me—makes me realize the harsh reality of the world’s current state.

We spend the morning talking about ourselves, starting with Mom. The only thing I know about her is that she grew up in a wealthy entrepreneurial family. She learned all sorts of things—piano, violin, and especially ballet. Dad always said he loved Mom’s ballet.

I used to be jealous of her life—until now.

“I never wanted to learn those things. I wanted to be a chef,” Mom says.

Apparently, my grandparents were extremely controlling. They never listened to her, convinced that everything they did was for her own good. They even chose a fiancé for her.

Well, that explains why our family has a bad relationship with my grandparents—since she married Dad, she never touched an instrument or danced ballet again.

Then there’s Dad. I used to know very little about him, but hearing his story completely changes the way I see him.

He grew up in a poor family with abusive parents and left home at fourteen. Back then, poverty was treated cruelly—nobody would hire him. He spent his childhood polishing shoes just to survive.

One day, he was invited to an opera—not as a guest, but to shine shoes for the upper class. He was so skilled that he finished early, leaving him just enough time to catch the second half of the performance.

“A twenty-year-old angel, about your age, appeared before my eyes,” Dad says, his eyes unusually soft.

He pauses for a moment.

“Honey, you’ve got to tell him the whole story. It was a disaster,” Mom sighs.

The nights leading up to the performance, Mom was forced to practice so hard that she barely got any sleep. The consequences were inevitable—she fainted in the middle of the show.

But things got even worse. That day, a shoeblack suddenly became a hero, leaping straight onto the stage to help her up.

“He came out of nowhere, even faster than my parents! You have no idea how stupid it looked,” Mom says, giggling.

Dad clears his throat and quickly disappears into the bathroom for a while—probably to hide his embarrassment. It’s an expression I’ve never seen from him before.

But that act of kindness undeniably stole my mom’s heart. They probably kicked Dad out after that, but my parents skipped straight to the part where they got married and had me.

It’s just… wow. Human stupidity alone was enough to turn what should have been a fictional story into reality.

It’s finally my turn… but I don’t particularly feel like sharing anything with my parents. Not that it matters—they probably already know everything. Maybe I should just talk about my years of experience playing online games…

I stay silent for a moment before deciding to share my terrible childhood instead—how I used to go around fighting other kids, the countless times I got called to the principal’s office, forcing my parents to get involved, and the times I skipped class just to play video games behind the school.

"Haha…" I let out a bitter laugh.

Both Mom and Dad give me a gentle smile before pulling me into a hug.

"Don’t worry. No matter what you do, you’ll always be our one and only precious child," Mom says, her voice trembling.

"I’m sorry for beating you up whenever you did stupid stuff too," Dad says with a laugh.

Damn old man… Can you choose a better time to say that?

"All’s good. I forgive you," I say with a smile.

The day continues as usual. The outside world is strangely quiet and peaceful—almost too peaceful.

I help my parents clean the house, do chores, and even prepare meals. Just like an ordinary family. Maybe staying like this for a year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Night falls, and the silence grows even deeper. No music from the neighborhood, no noise from the nearby road that used to be filled with vehicles.

Maybe people choose to spend their time in silence, appreciating the little time they have left.

Yawn. On my way to my room, a pair of hands suddenly pull me back.

“C’mon, big boy.”

Before I know it, I’m in my parents' room—a place I haven't visited since middle school.

…How did this happen?

Trapped between their arms, I’m filled with discomfort.

They’re both asleep. Maybe I should try to escape…

"Urghh…" I struggle to break free from their grip.

No luck.

I should’ve exercised more. I used to be jacked before I got addicted to online games.

Damn you, admin—you scammed my time.

At least I got revenge.

On those who boycotted me at school.
On those teachers who treated me like a fault in their society.
On the girls who grouped up and talked behind my back just because I turned down their confessions.

We’ll all go to hell together.

"Ahh… well deserved." I laugh with content.

Time passes, but I’m still awake.

I start pondering—why do people only express their true selves when they have little time left? Why does time only become precious when we can see it slipping away?

Perhaps people act like they’re immortal simply because they don’t know when they’ll die.

These thoughts come rushing back—the ones I used to drown out by keeping my mind busy with games…

I hate my parents. I hate everyone.

I hate myself.

I stay awake until my eyes adjust to the dark. I see tear trails on my parents' faces…

Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks like this.

Tears start rolling from my eyes as I take in their warmth—their old, calloused hands still holding onto me.

I stop questioning their sincerity and let my body relax.

That night, I dream of being a newborn baby, cradled in my mother’s arms. They’re both crying—whether from joy or sorrow, I can’t tell.

I want to preserve this moment forever… but the clock keeps ticking.

The sound of ambulances echoes occasionally through the night, signaling an inevitable shift in mankind.

52 Weeks.