He ran away from school from the noise, from the lights, from the people. He escaped to the forest ahead, far from civilization. He ran until his legs felt like jelly and his lungs burned with each breath. He ran and he ran and he never stopped.
It began raining, but Choi Ahin was on fire. He didn't care that the skies opened up and turned the dirt path into a muddy mess. He didn't care that he was getting soaked, that his hair was plastered to his forehead, that his clothes were drenched.
Ahin dug his fingers into the bark of the trees, leaving it in bloodied, painful gashes. He scraped himself on every passing branch and rock, leaving deep scratches that would leave scars on his skin. But he didn't care. He needed to run, to escape the noise, the lights, the people.
He fell, down a long, burning hill of his own making. He fell, down the noise, the lights, the people. He fell into himself, into the quiet, the dark, the emptiness. He fell into himself and he couldn't find his way out.
Choi Ahin didn't return home that day.