A Happy End? or A Miserable End?

"Death is surely unavoidable."

Its meaning is very simple yet deeply profound. At the age of 15, I also realized that death is unavoidable.

Imagine someone telling you that you will die in a few years due to a rare, incurable disease. How would you feel at that moment? Would you be happy? Or would you be sad?

I was obviously sad. I thought it was just a dream—a dream where I believed I was healthy and free from any disease. But reality was much harsher.

I always smile. I don't know why. It's not because I'm happy—far from it. Even when my heart aches, even when the weight of loneliness crushes me, I smile. Maybe it's a habit. Maybe it's a shield. Because I know that if I ever stop smiling, the tears I've fought so hard to contain will spill over, and once they start, they won't stop.

Every person's life has a meaning, a purpose. I often wonder what mine is. Some people live for love, some for dreams, some for themselves. But me? I don't know. I don't have happy memories to cling to, no warmth from the past to remind me that life was ever kind. The parents I loved with all my heart—did they ever love me back? I used to believe they did, but now… I'm not so sure.

If they loved me, they wouldn't have forgotten today. They wouldn't have let this day pass without a single word. My birthday. Their child's birthday. But the phone never rang. No messages, no calls, no "Happy birthday." Just silence.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. It's just a day, after all. But deep down, it does. It matters more than I want to admit. Because I spent my whole life wanting to be seen, to be acknowledged, to be loved. And yet, here I am, invisible to the very people who should have cared the most.

I try not to cry. I really do. But the pain is stronger than my willpower, and before I can stop them, a few tears escape, rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away quickly, as if erasing them will erase the hurt. It doesn't.

I glance around the hospital room—stark white walls, the faint beeping of machines, the distant murmurs of doctors and nurses. This place is my reality now. My body is weak, my time running out, and I know I won't be leaving this place. I am waiting. Not for visitors, not for phone calls, not for hope. I am simply waiting for my death.

I wonder if they'll remember me when I'm gone. If one day, too late, they'll think back and realize what they forgot. If they'll feel even a fraction of the emptiness I've felt my whole life. But I won't be here to know.

So, I smile. Because if I don't, the sadness will consume me whole.

---

They say that in the final moments before death, your entire life flashes before your eyes. A reel of memories, both beautiful and painful. But when my time came, I didn't see my life. I didn't see moments of joy or triumph. All I saw were the cold, indifferent eyes of my parents—the distant, emotionless gaze that had followed me all my life.

From the moment I could understand words, I knew my purpose: to please my mother. Whatever she asked of me, I did without question. If she told me to learn the piano, I spent hours at the keys, my fingers aching as I perfected each note. If she wanted me to excel in martial arts, I trained relentlessly, pushing my body beyond exhaustion. In school, I never settled for second place. I was always at the top of my class, believing that if I was perfect, if I met every expectation, maybe—just maybe—she would smile at me with warmth instead of indifference.

But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I sacrificed, it was never enough.

On my mother's birthday, I wanted to do something special. She had always been too busy to notice my efforts, too preoccupied with work and responsibilities to acknowledge my existence beyond commands and criticisms. But that day, I thought, would be different. I spent hours in the kitchen, carefully preparing her favorite dishes, making sure every detail was perfect. I imagined the moment she would walk through the door, the way her face would light up with surprise, how she would finally look at me with something other than disappointment.

But she never came home.

She stayed at work late, as she often did, and by the time she returned, she barely glanced at me before heading to her room. The next morning, without a word, she threw the untouched food into the trash.

I stood there, staring at the wasted effort, my heart sinking into an abyss of despair. But I didn't cry. I didn't ask why. I didn't blame her. Because deep down, I had already convinced myself—it was my fault. Maybe the food wasn't good enough. Maybe I wasn't good enough. I was just an incapable son, a burden she never wanted.

And yet, if someone were to ask me, Do you still love your mother, even after everything?—without a moment's hesitation, my answer would still be yes.

Because I don't know how to hate her. No matter how much she ignored me, no matter how much her coldness cut into my soul like a knife, she was still my mother. The woman who gave me life. And even if I never once felt her love, mine for her never wavered.

Perhaps love, in its purest form, isn't about receiving warmth. Sometimes, it's about holding on, even when it hurts.

I can't say much about my father—he was just as cold toward me as my mother. The only thing he ever loved was money. He even married my mother because her parents were rich. To him, I was nothing more than a tool for making a profit.

I don't know if I was lucky or truly talented in the stock market. All I saw was profit, and because of that, my father told me to study business and investments. It turned out to be a success, bringing in enormous wealth.

That day, when he looked at me, I saw something in his eyes that I will never forget. His gaze was full of greed—twisted, insatiable, and unnerving. It sent a shiver down my spine.

Even when I was sick, he still forced me to work. I hardly had time to hang out with friends, not that I had many to begin with. My world was reduced to numbers, profits, and expectations.

I hate my father—not because he saw me as nothing more than a means to make money, but because he never loved my mother. That, above all else, is something I can never forgive.

---

A strange sense of peace washes over me. Not the kind that comes with hope or comfort, but the kind that arrives when you finally stop fighting—when you surrender to the inevitable.

I'm going to die soon. And that thought doesn't scare me.

I have been tired for so long. Tired of pretending, tired of waiting for something that never came. Love, warmth, acceptance—these things were never meant for me. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I pray that I will never be reborn. I don't want another chance at life. Once was already too much.

My body is failing, piece by piece. My skin has turned an eerie shade of blue, because of disease which is still unknown to the world, but it no longer matters. The pain is unbearable, pressing against my chest like invisible hands, squeezing tighter with each passing moment.

"Huff… Huff… Huff… Huff…"

I struggle to breathe, each gasp a battle I no longer wish to fight.

"Angh—!"

A sharp pain stabs through my heart, more intense than before. My body convulses, and I clutch my chest, as if I can hold myself together just a little longer. But why? Why endure even one more second?

Even now, in my final moments, I feel nothing but pain. But I smile—because soon, this pain, this life, everything… will be gone.

"Aahhhh— Angh—"

The world around me begins to blur. My half-open eyes grow heavy, my vision darkening at the edges. The voices of doctors and nurses become distant, as if they are calling to me from another world.

And then, silence.

Am I truly happy?

I don't know.

Maybe happiness was never meant for me.

***

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

After death, I thought I would hear the eerie voices of demons, but instead, I was met with a sweet, gentle voice. Was this an angel?

"My lady, he is a boy, but he is cute enough to be mistaken for a girl."

Boy? Girl? Cute? What were they talking about? I still remember how, back on Earth, I was often mistaken for a girl.

Is this heaven? I never thought I was good enough to make it here.

"But he isn't crying, and he still hasn't opened his eyes. Is something wrong?"

Another woman's voice, filled with concern, reached my ears. They were discussing something, but I couldn't quite grasp what it was.

That's when I noticed it—everything around me was dark, as black as night. Slowly, I tried to open my eyes. A sudden burst of light made me instinctively shut them again, but I forced them open. After all, I wanted to witness the beauty of heaven.

But what I saw… wasn't heaven.

I saw humans.

What—? What is this?

They were undeniably beautiful, but they were just humans. And why were they dressed in maid uniforms? Was this some kind of cosplay event?

"My lady, the young master has opened his eyes. Ahh—he has the same eyes as the lord!"

Young master? Who? Me? And who were these people?

"Hand him to me."

A cold yet sweet voice rang out from behind them.

As I was lifted, I found myself face to face with a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Her white hair cascaded down her back, and her violet-purple eyes glowed with an almost ethereal light. But then, her expression twisted with unmistakable disdain.

"Indeed, he has the same eyes as that man. Disgusting."

Disgusting?

What did she mean? And why—why couldn't I speak?

A horrifying realization struck me.

"But why isn't the young master crying? Could there be a problem?"

Yes. Yes, there was a huge problem. Please, no—

My gaze shifted, and that's when I saw it. A mirror.

The reflection staring back at me was that of a child. A child with white hair and crimson eyes. Small legs. Tiny hands.

A baby.

"Waaahhh—!"

The truth hit me like a thunderbolt.

I had been reincarnated.

And with that realization, the tears I had held back for 19 years finally burst forth in an uncontrollable wail.

"Waaahhh! Waaahhh! Waaahhh!"