The only way to move forward is to let go of the past and embrace the future.

As a child, I always believed I was special—like all the best things in life were destined to be drawn to me by some magnetic field of uniqueness. I was convinced my connection with angels was above everyone else's, and that life's greatest treasures were reserved just for me.

Sounded ridiculous, didn't it? But good luck explaining that to the younger me, who proudly puffed out his chest while standing as the best man at his parents' wedding.

Wearing a tiny tuxedo, my charming little self stole the spotlight in every photo, unlike those thumb-sucking toddlers whining about not being included in their own parents' wedding pictures.

I couldn't stop flashing my crooked, toothy grin as I bragged to anyone who’d listen, whether child or adult. Because honestly, who else but Kim Taehyung could pull off something that exclusive?

That was my first real sign of being different from everyone else. Besides, my father had taught me a magic word—one that could work wonders on anyone, even high-ranking celestial beings like angels.

The catch was that I had to whisper it with absolute sincerity, followed by making my wish from the depths of my heart (or vice versa). And if I had been a good boy and behaved, as my father said, the angels would grant my wish, delivering their blessings in the form of whatever I desired.

Most of the time, though, I didn't feel the need to summon angels from their heavenly leisure to grant something as simple as an extra cookie from my grandmother. Because, honestly, a pair of wide eyes and a drooling mouth did the trick just fine. One look, and she'd melt, handing over not just one but two cookies, all while being charmed by the honey-sweet grin of her only grandson.

To put it simply, I had everything I could ever ask for. From my favorite Looney Tunes pajamas that I practically lived in, to the first paint kit I had once envied in the hands of a rich kid in art class. I suppose that's where my love for painting began.

There was something mesmerizing about capturing beauty on a blank canvas, allowing others to explore its untouched realm through my eyes. I recall a school trip to a small art exhibition where one particular artist had revived the spirit of a dead man’s masterpiece. It left a lasting impression on me.

While standing in line with other students, organized by our teachers like compartments in a train, I found myself mindlessly swaying from side to side out of boredom. Sometimes, I watched the water bottle hanging from my neck swing in sync with my movements. Other times, I'd glance around and notice the same scene—bottles swaying in rhythm, accompanied by the occasional ugly cries and sobs from restless students.

The room was spacious, amplifying the sounds of visitors. Amongst the chatter, I overheard my Arts teacher, Miss Meena, whispering to a fellow teacher that she would sleep with the handsome man standing in the corner if he agreed. Miss Meena had always been my favorite teacher, ever since she tamed the unruliest child in our class with ease.

Thinking back, she was always kind to me, and my father had taught me to return kindness and help those in need. Without a second thought, I ran over to the handsome man to ask him on Miss Meena's behalf.

"Excuse me, Mr. Good-looking Guy." I was five years old.

The guy stood facing the painting, his sharp profile catching the light. When he craned his neck to the right, turning 90° to look down at me with raised eyebrows, I felt like I was being scrutinized.

"Did you just call me good-looking, kid?" he asked, pointing at himself in surprise.

I nodded. "Yes."

The motion made my cap press painfully against my neck, and staring up at him didn't help either. I gestured for him to come down to my level, and he obliged, kneeling so we were face to face. His jeans had two big tears at the knees, and now that we were closer, I could take in his so-called "good looks."

His bushy eyebrows were thicker than any shrubs I'd ever seen, and his eyes were a deep brown, the color of tree bark. His nose and lips were. . . fine. But the patch of hair on his chin immediately reminded me of my dad's stubble. My father had looked better with it, though Mom always said he looked even more handsome clean-shaven, and I never argued with her.

Maybe I'd grow a beard one day, outdo my dad, and finally prove that stubble was the key to true "good looks." I made a mental note for my future self to remember.

"Do you want something from me?"

I blinked a few times before shaking my head. "No, I don't want anything from you. I want to ask you something for my Art teacher."

He raised his eyebrows, forming an "O" with his okay-looking lips.

"Oh? What is it?" He placed a large hand on my back and pulled me closer, clearly amused by whatever he thought was coming next.

"Can you sleep with her?"

Spoiler alert: Amusement left the building.

"What?" Mr. Good-Looking Guy practically dropped his jaw to the floor.

I couldn't help but notice the gum stuck between his molars and thought—Ew. Didn't his mother ever tell him chewing gum was bad for his teeth?

Suddenly, I started to question Meena Miss' choice in men. He was supposed to be well-dressed, polished, and have the manners of a gentleman. If I showed up like him, my mom wouldn't even let me out of the house. And honestly, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes anyway—those beat-up Reeboks were definitely not my style. My feet were destined for better things, something with a bit more class.

Still, thinking about Miss Meena's obvious infatuation with this guy made me pause. Maybe I should make him reflect on all her good qualities before deciding.

"My Arts teacher, Miss Meena," I said, pointing my index finger in her direction. She was now leading the student train to the next painting. "She wants to sleep with you. She's always so nice to me, and she loves her son a lot. And whenever Jimin teases me, she makes him apologize."

I, in my infinite cluelessness, had the dumbest grin plastered on my face as I asked him again, "Can you sleep with her?"

When I glanced back at the guy, his expression made it pretty clear that a 'no' was coming.

My smile wavered. "I promise, she's really nice."

He sighed deeply. "I'm sure she is, kid," he said, pinching my cheek. "But I can't sleep—"

"Why not?" I interrupted, determined to get an answer.

He hesitated, running a hand through his long hair as if searching for an explanation my innocent brain could grasp.

"You don't know what it means, kid. It's just. . . not possible," he finally said. "I'm sorry, kid. You should go back."

He started to stand, but I tugged at his arm, giving it one last shot. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Please," I said, using the magic word that always worked.

The good-looking guy muttered something under his breath, and I began summoning every angel I could think of. If he didn't agree this time, I was going to cry. Seriously.

My cap slid back again as I looked up at him with pleading eyes.

He pursed his lips, thinking it over, and finally sighed, letting out a breath that smelled faintly of gum. "Alright, I’ll talk to her," he said, reaching out to adjust my cap.

"Thank you, Mr. Good-Looking Guy!" I squealed, wrapping my arms around his shin. Silently, I sent a wave of gratitude to the angels. Dad would be so proud of me.

"Did he just call you good-looking?" a new voice asked.

Peeking through the gap between Mr. Good-Looking Guy's legs, I spotted a man who seemed to have appeared out of thin air. My mom would call these types of men 'strangers.'

"Yeah, he did. Hard to believe, right?" Mr. Good-Looking Guy replied with a chuckle.

"How could I? I'm starting to doubt if the kid's eyes work properly."

I frowned. This unfamiliar side character was making fun of me.

"My eyes work just fine, Mr. Stranger," I shot back, stepping out from behind Mr. Good-Looking Guy's legs. "Mom says I have beautiful eyes."

He was taller than Mr. Good-looking Guy, but I held my chin high and met his icy gaze. His blond hair was slicked back neatly, exposing a smooth, marble-like forehead. His eyebrows formed thin, straight lines above glossy lips that reminded me of the models I saw in television advertisements. Unlike his friend's plain white T-shirt with tiny holes, he wore a crisp white collared shirt.

I watched intently as he crouched down in front of me, adjusting his dress pants. He flashed a bright, toothy grin, and I couldn't help but wonder how many times he brushed his teeth each day to keep them so pearly white. I suddenly felt a strong urge to have a smile just like his.

"You sure do, little boy, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you," he said.

"It's okay, Mr. Stranger," I replied, mimicking how I would respond to Jimin when he apologized. "But I'm a big boy!" I flashed my signature boxy grin, and he laughed. A mouse had stolen my incisors a few days ago, leaving my smile a bit different.

"Of course you are. But just so you know, I'm not Mr. Stranger, and he's definitely not Mr. Good-Looking Guy," he snickered, casting a glance at his friend, who shot him an annoyed look. "I'm Jungho, and he is—"

"—Alex," Mr. Good-looking Guy, who was definitely not good-looking, interjected, gently caressing my face. "What's your name, kiddo?"

"Hello!" I greeted Alex and Jungho with a polite bow, just like Mom had taught me. "My name is—"

"Taehyung!"

"Miss Meena!" I shouted back as I noticed the student train had reached the junction where I stood.

"What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to break the line? What if you got lost?" She pulled me into her arms, bombarding me with questions one after the other.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I wanted to ask Alex if—"

"Who's Alex? I told you not to talk to strangers."

I would have answered her if she had let me speak, but Alex jumped in first.

"It's me! I'm Alex!" he exclaimed, clearly agitated. "He was with us."

His mouth went dry after those two sentences, and I noticed him lick his lips nervously. The tips of his ears turned bright red.

Miss Meena mimicked Alex's earlier expression, forming an "O" with her red-stained lips and relaxing the tension between her eyebrows.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry if he bothered you. This is the first time he's done something like this. He's usually such a good boy," she said, her voice softening.

"He is a brilliant kid, don't worry about it. It was quite fun having this big boy with us," Jungho chimed in with a grin.

He chuckled when I playfully tried to bite his fingers as he tugged at my nose. I braced myself for another scolding, but Miss Meena seemed momentarily tongue-tied, her gaze fixed on Jungho. Perhaps she was captivated by his dazzling smile, which could easily steal the show.

"Shall I tell the children about my painting next? I suppose that's the purpose of the school trip, right?"

Jungho flashed another charming smile, and Miss Meena nodded eagerly, the rose powder on her cheekbones deepening in hue the longer she held his gaze.

As he began to explain his art, I settled into the arms of the compartment head while the other students clung to the train. He spoke of a renowned artist whose name I struggled to pronounce at the time, sharing how the man, confined to an asylum, poured his emotions into his work as a means of relief.

Jungho's rendition of the painting diverged from the original, featuring a Cypress tree carved into a cross with the silhouette of Christ overlooking a moonlit city. This creative interpretation blew my mind, and I couldn't wait to meet the genius who had inspired him.

Vincent Van Gogh. I would later come to know this great artist and his masterpiece, The Starry Night, as my understanding deepened over the years.

The man must have been a genius, for he offered a new perspective on life through his uniquely bizarre lens. The way he viewed the world captivated my soul, and somehow my own perceptions began to mirror his.

The blues, whites, and yellows that once simply delighted my eyes now held profound meaning. The city, the night sky, and the stars transformed into a sea of tranquility, with me as the voyager setting sail to explore. The crescent moon whispered its stories, and I became a neophyte eager to learn its language. I spent countless nights marveling at the celestial body that illuminated the darkness when the sun slipped away, igniting my imagination.

I was enchanted by how selfless and welcoming the moon was, despite its scars. It was no wonder the poets of ancient times romanticized and glorified it. Philosopher or no philosopher, I had become a slave to beauty, and by no means but through art, I knew to show my madness for it.

My dedication to painting flourished as my skills grew more refined. But so did Jimin's teasing, although he remained shorter than me.

I later learned that Jimin's jokes stemmed from his inability to understand my perception of art. He also confessed that he wanted to be my friend because he thought I was a nice person who could make friends easily. That day, my heart swelled for the kid who boasted about owning imported jams he'd never tasted.

I had previously considered how I could drop the bomb about "the sleeping incident" on him, imagining the comical look on his chubby face when I explained what sleeping with someone meant. But after making a fool of myself that day by asking the wrong question to the wrong person, I realized I didn't want to be a jerk to my new friend. The poor kid would be traumatized, just like any child who'd learn too much about their parents' escapades.

Nevertheless, our friendship thrived as we transitioned from kindergarten half-sleeves and pants to the full-length styles of middle and high school, all while losing sleep over our newfound adventures.

Jimin transformed from mocking my drawings to cheering me on at every art competition. His new role was to taunt my rivals and swipe paints from unsuspecting competitors within a wide radius. If he ever got caught, he would vanish into thin air until the end of the event, later texting me, "The clown found the mouse, so he fled." (Jimin took great offense at being called tiny, but he insisted he was cuter than Joy, his hamster.) This quirky phrase eventually became our code for trouble.

I remember participating in an art competition with a cash prize of 120,000 KRW. If I won, the money would be enough to buy my father a birthday present. Jimin knew I was a nervous wreck, especially with the transfer student joining our school that year. With his skinny frame and bowl cut, he looked like a buffoon, but I was aware that geniuses often had unconventional appearances.

My instincts proved correct.

The "Geek of a Goose" turned out to be exceptional at capturing the beauty of humanity and nature, thanks to his geographer and aesthete parents. His talent threatened to overshadow my plans (sarcasm intended, with a twinge of heartache). Jimin vowed to leave rotten insects in the transfer student's lunchbox, locker, and anywhere else he could reach until the guy graduated.

He even contemplated snapping the student's braces while he flaunted his award-winning smile. I stopped Jimin just in time, and we parted ways after we (or rather, he) agreed to sneak into the "edentulous skeleton's" house and refill his toothpaste with hamster poop.

That evening, I sat on the porch of my house, staring at the white sheet featuring the illustration of the one thing that brought me peace. As I looked up, the same moon peeked out from behind the clouds, as if embarrassed to reveal itself after my disappointment in not winning the competition.

"Don't hide from me, Moon. It wasn't your fault; it was the Goose's for being so damn good. Maybe it's his parents' fault for not using protection," I said, breaking into a broken chuckle.

"Or maybe it's my fault for not being good enough. . ." I murmured, stretching the corner of my chapped lips in a wry attempt at a smile. The crickets seemed to appreciate my thoughts, their chirping resonating from somewhere nearby.

I let out a sigh.

"Am I interrupting a moment of soliloquy?" I heard my father's voice call from a short distance away.

I turned around quickly, rubbing my face before inviting him to sit beside me on the porch.

"Or did I just hear you doubting your worth?" he continued, moving a bit closer than I had expected.

Crap. "You must be imagining things," I said.

He hummed gruffly, and the rich aroma of cocoa wafted through the air. Great, I was in for those therapy conversations again. There was no escape.

"Keeping secrets from your old man, I see."

"You're not old, Dad. You're still in your thirties."

"Then why is my son acting like a grown-up when he's barely eleven? Did you break up with your girlfriend or something?"

I wished the ground would swallow me whole.

"I don't have a girlfriend," I muttered.

"You don't? What a shame. I had my first girlfriend at the sparkling age of eight. Just don't tell your mother," he said, slurping from his cup.

"Dad," I said, biting my lip. He hummed again, and I turned to beam at him as he tsked, sipping his drink, the steam curling in the chilly air. "The girl was my great-grandmother."

"I wonder how you know that," he replied, raising an eyebrow.

I giggled as he took a gulp and burned his tongue.

"You said it plenty of times while we were drinking hot chocolate together," I teased.

I snatched the mug from his other hand and stared at the rich liquid for a moment. The warmth enveloped me, but when I brought it to my lips, my mouth frowned slightly as I savored the heavenly taste.

"Damn it, did I really?" he asked, pretending to be shocked.

I nodded, smacking my lips. "Yeah, and a lot of other things, to be honest."

"Well, who says 'drunk minds speak sober hearts'? Here I am, spilling everything to my son over hot cocoa," he declared, hoisting the mug into the air like a trophy. "Ladies and gentlemen, beware of this dangerous brew that reveals all your dirty little secrets to your offspring when consumed!" He deepened his voice for dramatic effect.

His goofy act and silly smile ignited warmth in my chest.

"Not 'secrets'! It’s she-nan-i-gans!" I corrected him, laughing.

My cheeks ached as we chuckled in the stillness of the night, the quiet neighborhood wrapping us in a cocoon of warmth. It was an unusual moment for us. Father cracked an absurd joke, and we erupted into laughter once more.

When my giggles finally faded, I met his crinkled eyes, brimming with love and affection. I blinked away the intensity of his gaze.

"Won't you tell me why you feel unworthy over hot cocoa?" He nudged me with his shoulder, and I looked him in the eye. "I'm sure your old man has something to say about that."

As if the thread I was hanging onto had finally loosened, I broke down. All the sniffles and tears I had been holding back flooded out, like water pouring from a dam. I shared everything, even the brand of watch I wanted to give him for his birthday. He sat quietly, absorbing every detail I offered.

When I finished my emotional outpouring, he stroked my back until my hiccups subsided. The empty mugs were set aside as I nestled against his chest, enveloped in his embrace.

The lull of comfort surrounded us, time slipping by without a care.

"You in for some therapy now?" he hinted after a while, and I leaned in closer, eager to listen.

He dispelled the doubts and self-deprecation swirling inside me, affirming that I was worth more than any rare platinum. My abstract painting of the Moon hadn't lost the competition because it was lacking in value; rather, it had been overshadowed by the pure beauty of Mother Nature cradling her child, a vision the Goose had captured so gracefully.

No beauty ever surpassed that of a mother, and I couldn't agree more.

The next day, I made Jimin promise he wouldn't leave dead, rotten insects on the Goose's belongings. I took a certain delight in his disappointment as he whined about how hard it was to sprint after praying mantises and collecting termites from dead trees. In retaliation, he later buried them in the yard of the "stinking stick" (I had finally convinced him to stop calling the Goose an "edentulous skeleton," so he came up with a new nickname).

I spared Father my doubts, though. I held back the tiny qualm about angels that had crossed my mind that day, the same ones I wished to send prayers to in hopes that my name would be announced as the winner of the art competition. But it never was, and guilt gnawed at me for doubting their wisdom.

But I was wrong—very wrong.

Angels did not exist, and I knew this for a reason as I rode my bicycle through the rain-soaked traffic two years later. Humans were too quick to condemn non-existent creatures, blaming life for every heartbreak instead. I blamed life for mine. Because metaphorically speaking, if time was a slut, then life was a bitch. No matter how hard you try, you could never tame her.

Time may guide you, but life's unpredictability can seize everything you've worked for in the blink of an eye. It'd dig an irreparable void and leave you feeling like a living corpse, just as it did to me.

I had lost the meaning of life and the virtue of love. With each passing day, I simply survived.

But then, one magical night, Moon redefined life and love for me.