Namjoon/The Notes

**The Notes** by **Namjoon**, written in the form of diary entries.

I went to the warehouse classroom that we claimed as our secret base. We always went there. I picked up a few chairs and I made my way in. I set the toppled-over table upright and patted off the dust on top of it with my palm. To humans, separation is always sentimental. Today was the last day of school and also two weeks until we'd move away. I didn't know if I would ever come back here or whether I would be able to see my friends again. I folded the paper in half and placed it on the table. Although I held a pen in my hand, I didn't know what to write. Time passed by. After writing some meaningless words, the pencil lead broke with a sound.

"You must survive".

I unconsciously doodled those words onto the paper. Among all dark lead powder and doodling, I was suddenly reminded of poverty, parents, friends, moving, and other messy things.

I folded the paper into a ball, put it into my pocket and got up from my seat. Dust was everywhere again when I put the table back. As I got ready to leave I fogged up the window with my breath, and wrote 4 words. It was not enough at the moment, but it could be conveyed to everyone even if unsaid.

Waiting for the bus, the people around me rubbed their hands together to try and warm them up as a cold breeze brushed their cold fingers. I tightened my grip on my backpack's straps and looked down at the ground. I tried to avoid making eye contact
with those around me.

This was a country town. Only two buses came past every day. The first bus started to come into view. I followed everyone onto the bus, not bothering to look back. When you're desperate enough for something... where you can almost place it in your palms... when all you can do is escape... take the bus and get out. And don't turn back. If I turned back, all the effort I'd put in would be in vain.

To turn back:
To be suspicious
To yearn to give up
To be afraid

I had to overcome these doubts in order to escape. The bus departed. I had no plans after I'd escaped. I wasn't so desperate to chase after what I wanted just yet. I just wanted to run away. I didn't have a goal driving me forward after that. Mom's tired gaze. My troubled sibling. My dad getting sick. Our family was getting harder to be around with as every day passed. Our family emphasized peace and sacrifice. We stayed unknowing and tired to get used to carrying on. We tired to get used to poverty.

Is poverty a sin? Nobody would dare say it is. I say it is. Poverty is a sin, indeed. Poverty gnaws away at so many things. Things we treasured became meaningless. Things we could never give up, we let go of. You then become resigned and scared. You become suspicious.

In a couple of hours the bus will stop by a place I'm familiar with. I left that place a year ago, didn't say my goodbyes, but I'm here again. I'd lost all contact with my friends. What are they all doing now? Would they be happy to see me? Would we be able to meet again and laugh like old times?

The frost on the bus window made it hard to see much outside. I placed my finger on the glass and started writing.

"I need to survive."
 **11 April Year 22**@Smeraldo\_Books: SeokJin just stood there on the edge of my sight. He didn't come closer or start talking. |  | **11 April Year 22**

I was digging through a cheap t-shirt sale when Taehyung reached from behind and took a shirt. It had the same phrases printed on it as my shirt. Nirvana. Taehyung smiled at me and took his ripped shirt off. Hoseok looked at me with shocked eyes. Taehyung wore my t-shirt and looked at himself through my dirty mirror. He laughed.

"I was late because he wanted to do graffiti and got caught by the police. I had to pull him out." I pretended that I was getting angry at Taehyung, and Taehyung acted like he was really sorry. Yoongi, who was sitting in the corner of my trailer, walked towards us and patted Taehyung on the shoulder.
 **28 April Year 22**

I knew what happened to Taehyung all those years ago. Even if I pretended to be oblivious an uneasy feeling would come over me unexpectedly, whether it be in a momentary action, expression or tone. I went to the police station frequently and saw wounds on my body.

It was a nightmare. I'd had a nightmare. It was because I was waiting for Taehyung to speak for himself. On the other hand, I was wondering if I was even entitled to go through such troubles. I pretended to be older and mature, but I wasn't even able to protect myself when my friends became more guarded to the world around them. Everyone thinks they are mature, but I wasn't a real adult. I wasn't able to comprehend the reality before me.

"Yoongi Hyung is dead." Taehyung had a nightmare too. I sat with my shoulders hunched for a long time. I didn't even think of wiping away Taehyung's tears and comforting him.

"The dream was so real, Hyung," he said.
"But it seems like it's only a dream..."

"Don't go where you are," he said, his voice trembling.

"We're only a year apart. No, apparently someone said so. I'm the older one of course. I know. But they can't be a young kid forever. Isn't it time that they deal with it alone? Fine. I said it's fine. No, I'm not getting angry. I apologize."

Hanging up the phone, I looked down at the floor. The lukewarm sea breeze shook the pine forest as it passed by. I felt like my heart was going to burst. On the ground, half dirt rather than sand, ants lined up to head in some direction. If someone had the ability to understand me, both in the material and symbolic sense, would they be able to see where I was going – and why?

It's not that I don't love my parents. It's not that I'm not worried about my younger sibling. If I could, I'd ignore them, but because I can't be anything other than myself, I definitely can't do that. So if that's the case, what was the point in struggling like this anyway; getting angry, frustrated, and wanting to leave?

I saw the back of someone in the distance, standing as if holding a grudge, much like myself. It was Jungkook. There was a time Jungkook had said this.

"I want to become an adult like you, Namjoon." Back then, I could not respond. That I'm not such a good adult – no, that I'm not even an adult. Back then, it felt like that would be too cruel to say. I had to receive his trust and interest somewhat; I could not tell such a young friend who had not received affection that just because one grows older, taller and lives a bit more, it did not mean they became an adult. I had wished that Jungkook's future would be a bit kinder than mine, but I wasn't able to promise that I would help that to be the case. Approaching him, I put my arm around his shoulder.

Jungkook raised his eyes and looked at me.
 **5 June Year 22****Highlight Reel**: He helped a woman to hand out flyers from the overpass. |  | **20 June Year 22**

I looked a little strangely at myself in the mirror. As if my hand had its own control, I pressed the 'open door' button. There were moments like this. Moments that felt like I had repeated countless times even though it was obviously the first time. The elevator door that was closing opened again and a bunch of people pushed in. A person that had their hair tied in a yellow rubber band caught my eye. I didn't press the 'open' button knowing that the person would be there, but I thought that it was obvious that the person should be there. I moved back, one step at a time. As my back hit the cold wall I raised my head. The yellow rubber band caught my eye. 1

A person's back told a lot of stories. But I only understood a few of them. Some I had been able to faintly guess and some I couldn't understand. I suddenly came to the realization that you could only really know a person when reading everything just from their back. Were there people who could read who I was just by looking at my back? I raised my head and made eye contact with her through the mirror. She looked away. There were many moments like this. I raised my head again, but all I could see was my own face. I couldn't see my back.
 **13 July Year 22**

I rested my head against the bus window. From the library to the gas station, the scenery passed by the window, almost frighteningly familiar since I took this route every day. Would there come a day I could leave this scenery behind? I felt that it was impossible to predict what tomorrow would bring, nor to hope for anything.

There was a woman sitting in front of me, her hair tied with a yellow rubber band. Her shoulders lifted and then dropped as if she was sighing. Then she rested her head against the window. For around a month already, we had studied at the same library and gotten on the bus at the same stop. We hadn't spoken a word to each other, but we looked at the same scenery and lived at the same time and sighed the same sighs. The hair tie was still in my pant's pocket.

The woman always got off the bus three stops before I did. Every time I saw her leave, I wondered if she was going to distribute fliers. What kind of time was she spending, what kind of things was she enduring? How strongly did she feel stifled at the thought that tomorrow might not come, or that from the beginning there had never been such a thing as tomorrow? I thought things like that.

The woman's stop began to approach. Someone pressed the stop request button and other passengers stood up from their seats. But in the midst of this, that woman didn't stir. She just stayed in her seat, her head against the window. It seemed like she was asleep. Should I go and wake her? I fought with myself for a moment. The bus approached the stop. The woman didn't move. People disembarked. The door closed and the bus started to move.

The woman didn't wake, even as we passed the next three stops. As I moved to the bus door I fought with myself again. It was clear that once I got off the bus, no one else would pay attention to her. She would wake up somewhere far from her stop, and it was impossible to know how much more tired she would be today because of it.

I left the bus stop and started to walk toward the gas station. The bus took off and I didn't look back. I had left the hair tie on top of her bag, but that was it. That wasn't a beginning, and as such nor was it an end. It was nothing to start with and there was no reason for it to be anything. So I thought it really didn't matter.

I stared at the advert in the magazine. At the other side of my table there was another table by the window. A girl had been sitting there for a few days in a row now. Books, bags and white paper cups from the café were the same but she was different. She was new.

I looked back down at the magazine. Why was I still sitting here anyways? All the other regular customers were living their lives and were enthusiastic. And here I am scouring a magazine at random. Everyone was anxious to start there day. I was anxious to do something. That girl...but that wasn't the case... I returned the magazine to its place and went through the bookshelves. Books were lined up and lay undiscovered higher than what I could reach.

The smell of dust and books came over me like a breeze sweeping through a window.
Strangely, I felt nostalgic. My high school days came to surface as I had fallen in love with my classmates, and books I'd read then smelled similar to the ones I browsed through now. I couldn't really put my finger on it...

Maybe I stopped reading the book in the past and had forgotten about it. I moved to the other bookcase and picked up the book. I guess I had to start again.