Until It Doesn't Hurt

Lee Chan's least favorite activity in the whole world is running. It's not that it's bad — it's one of the easiest sports, actually — it's just boring. Everybody can run, just like everyone can sing. Not all of them can be good, but everyone with a working pair of legs is most definitely able to run.

The funny thing is, he's a runner.

No, not a runner. A sprinter. The speed kinda adds to the fun, but still, he's just running. Nothing really special about it.

If he could choose, he would choose to be a dancer. He doesn't have to be part of a famous K-pop group or anything (he only likes listening to music instead of singing), he just wants to be a professional dancer. Maybe one of those K-pop groups background dancers. Or choreographer. That would be cool, too. It would be much better than trying your very best for a really long time just to reach the other end of the track in the shortest time possible.

But even if he hates running, it's still the only thing he does the best. It's the only thing he knows how to do well. No, it's the only thing he's told to do well. He barely walked properly and just started to playfully speed up to turn up the radio when his father apparently first saw his potential.

"I think you should run."

And that's what Chan's been doing, dutiful as he's always been. Even as a baby boy he'd been obedient, doing everything to please his parents. To make them laugh. To make them proud. So he runs. He runs until he becomes the best at it — or at least tries to.

Unfortunately, he's never been told to stop. And now, when he's looking at an X-ray of his ankle, the words of his doctor ringing in his head clearly telling him that he has to, he realizes he doesn't know how.

*

It all started on this unfortunate day: the final round of the competition to find Iksan's finest sprinter. The winner would then be sent to the national team to later represent South Korea in international sport events. It was the day he had been waiting — and training — for all his life.

The boisterous sound of the spectators' screams was the only thing he could hear besides his own beating heart. The burning sun stung his tanned skin, sweats dripping down from the top of his head. He could weirdly feel the coarse track underneath the sole of his shoes, red and blindingly irritating. He didn't want to think about the fact that his head was throbbing. All he forced himself to think was that he needed to win. He needed to be on the national team. He needed to make his parents proud.

They, alongside his coach, had gotten disappointed for some time leading up to that day. His time was getting slower, they said. Chan ended every single day feeling as if he was a war soldier getting home after serving for months — tired and empty, a mere shell of a body. His only motivation to wake up everyday was because of this competition and his need to win it. He couldn't fail. He couldn't afford to.

Chan glared at the spectators, towards the specific section where his family sat. His parents were talking to his coach, who stood next to them. He looked away, not wanting to think about what they were talking about, but when he did, he caught his brother Geon looking at him, worries thick in his eyes. Chan tried to smile. He didn't know if it made Geon relieved or feel worse, so he added a nod to make it more convincing. Even that wasn't sufficient enough because Geon's expression didn't change, staring so intensely it burned hotter than the overhead sun.

Eventually Chan just averted his gaze before he became worried too. Worry was contagious, he reckoned. But he couldn't let it get into his head. He had a competition to win.

"Chan-ah, are you sure you're okay?"

Chan thanked Hansol quietly. He felt like if Hansol didn't talk to him he would combust. But he lied anyway, "I'm fine, don't worry."