Chapter 0

Whether you're living peacefully right now, or already standing at death's doorstep.

Your world was never truly yours.

Why?

Because deep down—haven't you already realized it?

How empty this seemingly abundant world actually feels.

Why? Let's take this quote for example:

"Money can never buy happiness."

Such a simple, overused statement.

Yet people still spend their entire lives chasing larger houses.

Expensive cars. Meaningless luxury.

All of those just to prove that quote wrong.

But one day.

Eventually.

You will realize the truth.

Money can buy happiness.

Just not completely.

And here I was. Lying on my deathbed. Waiting for another medical consultation that would probably end the same way as always.

Hopeless.

Tell me, dear readers...

How does it feel talking to someone about to die?

Awkward?

Uncomfortable?

It sucks, doesn't it?

I know.

After all—I can feel you reading these words right now.

Don't lie to me, my dear.

...No.

Sorry, that was too rude of me.

You could never understand.

You're not as crippled as I am.

Not broken the way I am.

Not counting down the days the way I am.

Therefore, you never have any capability.

To empathize with what I feel right now.

...

Six months ago.

The rain that day was annoyingly loud.

Not romantic. Not beautiful. Not symbolic.

Just irritating.

Each droplet hit the hospital window beside me like some desperate pianist trying to force emotions into a cheap drama scene.

Gray sky. Disinfectant hallway. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry insects.

Somewhere nearby, an old man kept coughing his lungs out every few seconds.

Hack. Wheeze. Hack.

Then silence.

Then hack again.

Honestly?

Miserable.

"Seira Kagurazaka-san."

There it was.

That tone.

Doctors always have the same voice whenever they're about to ruin somebody's life. Calm. Careful. Professional. As if speaking gently somehow makes despair easier to swallow.

Spoiler: It doesn't.

I slowly raised my head.

The doctor adjusted his glasses. Looked down at the documents in his hands.

Tapped the edge against the clipboard.

"You are eighteen years old, correct?"

"No, I'm actually eighty-two."

A brief silence.

"...I see you still have enough energy to joke."

And I see you still have enough energy to avoid the point.

How wonderful for both of us.

He exhaled quietly before continuing.

"Your congenital heart disease has worsened significantly over the past year."

Ah.

Right.

Exactly.

There it was.

The most polite, formal execution reminder.

No dramatic music. No flashing lights. Just a middle-aged man in a white coat reading words off a piece of paper.

Not so surprising, honestly.

When your own body constantly feels like it's giving up. Trying to break your heart from the inside—literally. Eventually you stop pretending things will miraculously improve.

You stop hoping.

You stop crying.

You just... wait.

Doctors always had that same voice.

Whenever they were about to take someone's soul.

Calm. Careful. Professional.

As if speaking gently somehow made despair easier to swallow.

They're more or less grim reapers. Just wearing a white coat to cover it.

I looked to my side.

My parents were sitting there.

At least... physically.

Mother held my hand tightly enough to imitate affection. Her thumb rubbing slow circles on my skin. The kind of gesture you see in hospital dramas right before the tragic goodbye.

Father wore that heavy expression adults love using whenever they want to appear concerned. Brows furrowed. Lips pressed together. The occasional slow nod like he was processing devastating information.

If someone else saw them, they probably would have called us a loving family.

How impressive.

Even now, they were still excellent actors.

Should have won an Oscar with that kind of performance for sure.

"The current medications are no longer stabilizing your condition effectively."

His voice sounded distant.

Or perhaps—I just stopped caring halfway through.

Words like "risk," "treatment," "possibility," and "further complications" eventually start sounding identical after hearing them for years.

Meaningless déjà vu.

Humanity really loves decorating hopelessness with complicated vocabulary.

Your condition.

Your prognosis.

Your remaining time.

As if adding fancy terms makes it hurt less.

Spoiler again: It doesn't.

Then came the sentence I already expected.

Far more predictable than whatever major I was supposedly going to study in university someday.

"You may only have around six months remaining."

Dramaturgy disguised as silence.

No dramatic gasp. No tears. No denial.

Just rain hitting the window.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Each drop sliding down the glass like it had somewhere better to be.

Mother squeezed my hand harder after hearing it.

Tighter.

Her fingernails pressing into my skin.

Perfect reaction.

Practiced. Timed.

Anyone would have believed she was devastated.

But the moment I glanced at her eyes—

Relief.

Just for a second.

Just one tiny second.

But I saw it.

A flicker. A crack in the performance. The mask slipping before she pulled it back into place.

As if the burden called "Seira Kagurazaka" was finally approaching its expiration date.

Eighteen years of hospital visits. Eighteen years of medication schedules. Eighteen years of dealing with this.

Almost over.

"...Six months, huh."

I stared at the floor.

Tiles. White. Scuffed. Someone had dropped something dark in the corner and no one bothered to clean it properly.

That was surprisingly generous. Six months.

Enough time to watch people pretend they cared about me.

Enough time to watch relatives suddenly remember my existence.

Enough time to watch fake friends show up with wilted flowers and recycled sympathy.

Enough time to realize my life amounted to nothing more than a slowly expiring medical report.

What a wonderfully pathetic ending.

Funny, isn't it?

People only start measuring your worth once your remaining time becomes visible.

Teachers suddenly get gentler. Relatives suddenly call more often. Even neighbors who ignored you for years begin offering hollow sympathy with carefully rehearsed smiles.

As if dying transforms someone into a human being.

Or maybe people just enjoy tragedies more when they're happening to somebody else.

Look at that poor girl.

So young.

So brave.

So inspiring.

Please.

How wonderfully humane.

And again—how pathetic.

Truly human, aren't they?

All of them.