Chan Nuri, to enjoy a world full of blessings.
They gave me an incredibly well-chosen name, but the world wasn't so easygoing. Around the age of three, just learning to walk, I was the sole survivor of a traffic accident, losing my parents. I grew up stubbornly, like a wildflower blooming in the middle of a highway, within the orphanage.
At sixteen, hoping to gain some kind of foothold in this wretched life, I left the orphanage with the small amount of money I had saved by splitting and re-splitting my time to hand out flyers.
A boy living alone without family in that dilapidated house with a blue roof on the peak of the shantytown, a house that didn't even have heating. Now eighteen in that old house, I endure a life that, far from improving, slams into the ground day by day.
The first time I saw you was at the entrance ceremony when I was sixteen, taking my first steps while wearing a hand-me-down, tattered, and worn uniform. How could I ever forget you? You stood on the stage as the student representative, looking around with sparkling eyes, delivering a firmly bright voice without betraying a single hint of nervousness. With your beautiful looks, having grown up in a wealthy and harmonious home, and being academically gifted, you received an overflowing amount of love everywhere you went. If I had known that you, who always wore a sun-like smile, would persistently follow me around, I would have avoided running into you long ago. We are polar opposites, completely different people. You, who always share happiness, were too good for me—who always lives with depression—to even be placed on the same scale for comparison.
I hate you, and I hate myself for being swept up in this terrible inferiority complex and harboring these twisted emotions for no reason. Due to my quiet and timid nature, the insults written and rewritten on my desk every day. The severe bullying, the scars left on my body almost daily, have become indelible marks. Beggar bastard, absolute orphan, cripple. That was me.
You are much shorter than me, and your body is so frail it looks like it would break if someone just tapped it—you look like you've never done a day of physical labor. What kind of courage allows you to stand fearlessly in front of me? I hate you for being able to be so confident, I hate your smile that shines like the sun, and I hate you for wanting to share love. There is no such thing as a ray of light in this wretched life where I toil, hauling rebar just to somehow survive the day.
What kind of life have you lived, that you approach me—who wishes tomorrow would never come—without ever getting tired? Even though light and darkness cannot coexist, you deliberately cast a single ray of light into the darkness.

Hey, don't talk to me.