Annyeongz One-shots

80. Fate

In the bustling streets of a coastal city, where the salty air mingled with the clamor of vendors and tourists, lived an 18-year-old boy named Yujin. His days were a relentless grind, strumming his worn acoustic guitar under the harsh glare of streetlights and midday sun. Busking wasn't a passion for him anymore—it had become a chain, forged by his mother's unyielding demands. "Money, Yujin! That's all that matters in this world," she'd snap every morning, her eyes cold and calculating as she shoved him out the door. "Stop dreaming and start earning. Your father left us broke; you won't do the same."

Yujin's mother, a woman hardened by years of bitterness, had once been vibrant, or so he imagined from faded photos. But after his father walked out five years ago, leaving for a younger woman who promised a life without her endless complaints, she transformed into a vortex of greed. Every evening, when Yujin returned home with his cap full of crumpled bills and coins—earned through hours of singing covers of melancholic ballads—she'd snatch it all away. "This is for the family," she'd say, but "family" meant her shopping sprees: designer bags that gathered dust, perfumes she never wore, and endless trips to salons that did nothing to soften her sharp features. She didn't ask about his day, his voice cracking from overuse, or the blisters forming on his fingers. To her, he was a wallet on legs, nothing more.

The pressure built like a storm cloud over Yujin's head. At 18, he should have been chasing dreams—maybe enrolling in music school or hanging out with friends. Instead, he busked from dawn till dusk, his throat raw from belting out songs in crowded plazas, his body aching from standing in the rain or sweltering heat. He ate cheap street food when he could sneak some coins away, but most nights, hunger gnawed at him as he watched his mother count her "earnings" with a satisfied smirk. "You're lazy if you don't bring more tomorrow," she'd berate him, ignoring the dark circles under his eyes or the way his shoulders slumped.

One fateful evening, after a particularly grueling day where the crowds were thin and the tips meager, Yujin dragged himself home. His body screamed in protest—every muscle sore from lugging his guitar, his throat burning like fire from non-stop performances without a single break. He collapsed onto the threadbare couch, coughing harshly, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. "Mom," he managed, his words trembling, "I'm sick. My whole body hurts. My throat... I can't sing anymore today. I need rest."

She paused from scrolling through her phone, her latest online shopping cart open. Her eyes flicked over him dismissively, as if he were an inconvenience rather than her son. "Sick? That's just an excuse. Get up and go out again." But when he didn't move, his face pale and feverish, she sighed dramatically, like he was ruining her plans. She tossed a handful of coins onto the table—barely enough for a meal—and turned away. "Fine, take this. But tomorrow, you better make up for it." Without another word, she grabbed her purse and left, the door slamming behind her like a final judgment.

Alone in the dim apartment, the weight of it all crashed over Yujin. He stared at the scattered coins, his vision blurring with hot tears. How had it come to this? He curled into a ball on the floor, sobs wracking his frail frame. "Dad... why did you leave?" he whispered to the empty room. Memories flooded him: his father's warm laughter, the way he'd teach Yujin guitar chords by the window, escaping his mother's nagging. Now, his dad was gone, living a new life with another woman, probably in some sunny suburb far from this hell. Yujin understood it now—the constant demands, the emotional void, the way she drained the joy from everything. His father hadn't abandoned him; he'd fled a prison. But Yujin was still trapped, too young, too scared to run. The tears came harder, choking him, until his chest ached as much as his body. He missed the man who'd once been his anchor, now just a ghost in his heart.

Needing air, needing escape, Yujin wiped his face and grabbed his guitar, slinging it over his back like a lifeline. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. He wandered aimlessly until he reached the nearby beach, a stretch of sand where the waves whispered secrets to the shore. The place was usually alive with families and joggers, but tonight, as dusk settled, it felt desolate, mirroring his soul. He climbed down the weathered wooden stairs leading to the sand, his footsteps heavy, and sat on the bottom step, gazing at the endless ocean. The crash of waves was a lullaby, but it couldn't drown the turmoil inside him.