Chapter 388

Chapter 388

I don't have particularly fond memories of my childhood.

I was born to a poet father and a singer mother.

They met in a jazz bar and fell in love at first sight. It sounds romantic, but reality is often less glamorous.

My father was a poet. More accurately, an aspiring poet.

He spent his life writing poetry, sending bundles of manuscripts to newspapers and magazines every spring, but never received favorable responses.

Frankly, my father lacked talent.

My mother was a singer. An obscure one, performing old pop songs in jazz bars.

After each performance, she'd spend the small envelope of cash she earned that day, lacking any concept of savings.

Or, more precisely, any economic sense at all.

Their meeting might have been romantic, but the married couple was always poor.

Born in the first year of their marriage, I too lived in poverty.

My father wanted me to write poetry.

So, he made me read all sorts of old poems.

In his musty attic, filled with poetry books, I memorized and copied ancient verses.

My mother wanted me to make good money.

So, she pushed me to study.

Somehow finding the funds in our meager budget, she sent me to academies and private tutors from a young age.

Both seemed to hope that I would succeed in the areas where they lacked talent.

Regrettably, I had neither a talent for poetry nor for academics.

I was just an ordinary kid who loved video games.

I picked up an old game console thrown away by a neighbor and, secretly from my parents, connected it to a low-quality CRT TV, playing games all night with my eyes glued to the screen.

I still remember the opening of that game.

On the pixelated screen, the sun rose... and the hero, bathed in sunlight, lifted a sacred sword above his head.

Then the text appeared.

- PRESS START

- Insert A Coin To Continue

It was thousands of times more enjoyable than the tedious task of writing poetry or the studies that hardly stuck in my dull mind.

That old console was the only escape from my frustrating childhood.

That escape ended when my parents smashed and threw away the console.

***

As I grew older and it became clear I had no talent for poetry or studies, my parents' obsession only deepened.

Their belief was that with enough effort, anything could be overcome.

After school, I had no time to breathe; I was immediately caught up in writing and memorizing poetry, and then studying.

I had no real friends.

With no time to socialize, my life was a back-and-forth between home and school.

When I became a high school student, my parents began to argue, typically like this:

- Our child must be raised as a poet. He needs to win awards while in the teens. Let's focus on poetry now.

- What are you talking about? We should send our child to a prestigious university in Seoul. Forget poetry, concentrate on studies.

They fought like this every night.

Isn't it ironic?

Counting chickens before they hatch it was exactly like that.

My poetry never won any awards, and my grades barely kept me in the upper ranks of my school.

Half my day was spent on poetry, the other half on studies, and this was the result.

...

Three years passed. My high school life ended.

My poetry still hadn't won any awards.

And I botched my college entrance exams.

***

My parents divorced when I was preparing for my third attempt at the university entrance exams.

Unable to overcome financial struggles, they separated.

And then, finally, they let go of their expectations for me. Or rather, they gave up.

While preparing for my third university entrance exam, I worked part-time jobs and lived in a tiny room. Eventually, I managed to get into a decent national university as a scholarship student for three years.

It was a major unrelated to poetry, with good job prospects. At this point, my father declared he was cutting ties with me.

He must have wanted me to pursue a field related to poetry. My mother was overjoyed.

After completing my military service and graduating from university with intense effort, I miraculously landed a job at a well-known conglomerate.

My mother embraced me, crying tears of joy.

She exclaimed how she always knew I could do it, that I was a child who always delivered...

My father didnt answer my calls.

I never told him that I hadnt given up on poetry; I was still writing and submitting in secret, but still hadn't won any awards. I didnt tell him because I decided to stop writing poetry altogether.

I joined the company.

And from day one, it was hell.

Being completely new to the world of internet broadcasting, I had no idea how to improve it.

So, I just kept the stream running whenever I played games.

A month passed.

My stream was still as deserted as ever, with occasional viewers popping in only to leave shortly after seeing the screen.

Should I quit?

While starting the game, that thought crossed my mind.

I was almost at the end of a classic side-scrolling RPG.

I thought about quitting the stream after seeing this games ending.

The final hidden boss appeared on the screen.

I deftly maneuvered the controller, outsmarting the boss, and defeated it without taking a single hit.

Game cleared.

The ending credits rolled, and behind them, the protagonist was receiving accolades for saving the kingdom.

While the hero in the game was being celebrated, I was just lifelessly playing games alone in my one-room apartment.

"Phew..."

I sighed.

"I've finally beaten it."

Then I was startled.

I had forgotten that I turned on the microphone for this 'last broadcast'. Shocked at first, I eventually chuckled.

What did it matter if my voice was broadcast?

No one was watching anyway...

That's when it happened.

- Bro!

In the empty chat box,

A message appeared.

- Bro, you're amazing. How did you beat that?

"..."

I was stunned, eyes wide, as I read and reread the message.

Then I saw it.

Viewer count. 1.

Since when? How long had they been watching?

I was speechless.

Receiving my first-ever viewer message since I started broadcasting, I didn't know how to react.

As I froze in confusion, another message from them popped up.

- Ill bookmark you. Youre going to stream again, right?

"Uh, uh... yeah, I will."

I stuttered out a response, and then the viewer left a waving emoticon...

- It was fun! See you again!

And exited the stream.

"..."

The viewer count returned to 0.

Was it an illusion? Had I seen something that wasn't there?

But the chat log remained vividly.

I read and reread the mysterious viewer's messages.

"...Ha ha."

Laughter escaped me.

For some reason, my nose tingled. I quickly pressed my burning eyes with the back of my hand.

I had been cocooned in solitude.

Dying alone in isolation, where no one thought to look.

I had thought I wanted to live this way.

But that wasn't true.

In fact, I had been longing for someone to reach out to me.

Not the me who writes poetry. Not the me who studies. Not the me who earns money. Not the me who is useful.

But the me who just likes what I like... to be liked for that.

Thats what I had always wished for.

So, this one chat, left by a complete stranger, even if it was a casual message for them.

The feeling of being connected to someone.

The kindness extended to me, who had become useless.

It made me so happy, it brought tears to my eyes.

"Maybe I'll broadcast a little longer..."

I shelved my thoughts of quitting the broadcast and decided to continue for a few more days.

And this decision changed the course of my life thereafter.