Happiness

He used to be such a cheerful child.

Lying in bed, Fu recalls his past—again. He has lost count of how many times he's done this. At sixteen, caught between a slightly gifted mind and an unfortunate childhood, he has developed a deeply pessimistic view of the world around him.

His bed, with nothing but a thin blanket and a small pillow, barely offers enough comfort to lull him to sleep. He spends his nights staring at the cold ceiling. Vivid faces appear, watching him. He knows they are a product of his mind—a symptom of his illness. He doesn’t believe in God or ghosts.

As he slowly drifts off, he wonders—are these the ones who haunted him in the past? Or are they just parts of himself, dying in the process of growing up?

Just as the calm darkness embraces him, his vision ignites with an ugly white light. Countless eyes glare at him. Long, slithering fingers coil tightly around his body—not with the warmth of human touch, but with the cold grip of a corpse.

Before him looms an uncanny monster, its body riddled with shifting eyeballs and grotesque, writhing limbs. Fu can’t move. He wants to scream, to faint—but he can’t.

The creature creeps closer, its bloody mouth twisting into something disturbingly human. And then—voices. They seep into his ears, whispering, taunting. Familiar voices. The voices of his own friends and family, the ones that haunt him every night.

Its breath reeks of sewage and rotting meat. Worse still, its words sting—sharp, venomous, tearing Fu’s heart into a million pieces. It always starts sweet, but he already knows where it will lead: cruel, merciless insults that crush him. His feelings go numb. He doesn’t care anymore.

Even knowing it’s just a dream, he can’t close his eyes. He can’t control anything—not even here.

The monster stops. Its cruel words fade into silence.

It stares at him.

Fu, numb and unresponsive, meets its gaze.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Like I’m the one to blame…"

Everything goes black—not the familiar comfort of darkness, but something far worse. It’s hollow, empty. A place where nothing exists.

Fu can’t feel his body. It’s like drowning.

Then—

A shrill, tearing noise spirals through his right ear, followed by the sickening rush of thick liquid, as if something is forcing its way through his skull. His vision explodes with red sparks.

Fu wakes with a jolt, his sight blurred, as if he’s just been hit with a flashbang. His head pounds. His breathing is ragged. But despite the excruciating pain, he feels relieved to see his bedsheet.

Then—

Something is wrong. The wall. It looks… odd.

He blinks.

It’s not a wall.

It’s the monster.

The thing from his nightmare is right there, looming over him.

His body moves—this time, he can move—but he stumbles, awkwardly falling from his bed.

“Fuck—!” Fu screams at the top of his lungs.

The monster doesn’t move. But its eyes do.

They follow him, tracking his every breath, every twitch.

Fu avoids their gaze, his hands fumbling desperately for his medication. The sensation—his only way out. Morphine dulls the edges of this cruel madness, turning it into nothing more than a sick joke.

He laughs. A hollow, bitter laugh. A laugh filled with nothing but scorn—scorn for life itself.

"Brrr."

The phone’s vibration cuts through his thoughts, dragging him back to reality.

Frustration flares inside him. As if life couldn’t get any worse.

Calls and messages from Yuka.

He barely considers her a friend, yet she lingers in his life, day after day. He doesn’t know why she stays, and he doesn’t care to ask. Unconsciously, he projects his suffering onto her.

His empathy—the thing he despises, the thing he’s tried so hard to suppress—still snaps under the weight of his own misery. And he hates himself for it.

He lets out a tired, bitter grunt. “Urghh…”

Despite his exhaustion, Fu still manages to put on his school uniform. Maybe it’s the morphine. Or maybe it’s something else—something he refuses to admit.

His house is small, cramped, suffocating. Six people living in a single narrow space where privacy is nothing but a forgotten concept. One room serves every purpose—sleeping, eating, even receiving guests. There is no personal space, no escape.

Even the family’s only bathroom offers little privacy. The door has been broken for as long as Fu can remember, yet no one cares enough to fix it. Instead, they’ve hung a tattered curtain they found on the street—a pitiful excuse for a barrier.

Not that they use it. It’s too filthy to touch.

To make things worse, the kitchen—if it can even be called that—is right next to the bathroom. Since the entire family shares the same cramped room for sleeping, eating, and everything else, this unfortunate layout leads to ridiculous situations. One person could be cooking while another is… busy in the bathroom.

It’s as hilarious as it is miserable.

Outsiders are often amazed that people can call this place home instead of a public toilet. Maybe their minds are just as cramped as their living space.

Fu steps carefully, trying not to wake his sleeping family—not that they would care. They’ve long since learned to ignore his screams. They’re used to it.

The rusty wooden floor groans under his footsteps, a sound as unpleasant as the place itself. Hygiene is the least of his concerns as he makes his way to the door—the only thing separating him from the outside world.

From the prison he calls home.

Standing before the door, Fu watches his own shadow stretch across the frame. It looms over him, like a reflection of his past—his mistakes, his regrets.

The past where he mindlessly placed his trust in humanity.

The shadows seem to whisper to him. Is going outside even a choice? Does the choice even matter?

Fear grips him. The fear of making a decision he’ll regret. But the thought of standing still—of doing nothing—terrifies him even more. He’s already lived through that feeling, night after night.

He bites his lip, hard enough to pull himself back to reality. Then, before he can hesitate again, he forces himself into motion.

He opens the door.

Creak. The wooden door groans, then falls silent. Immediately, the spring breeze brushes against his skin. Birds chatter. The scent of fresh air, tainted by exhaust fumes from the nearby road, fills his lungs. His five senses, which he thought were too numb to feel anything, suddenly awaken.

After all, life is as miserable as it is. And yet, it still offers youth.

Fu stands there, contemplating. Maybe... my act of opening the door was worth it.

Fu hasn’t even fully absorbed the sensation of the outside world when he notices something—a presence.

A human presence.

Absolutely unexplainable.

Squatting next to the door, right beside where he’s standing, is her.