I'm not a bad person.
I know you don't believe me, but I'm telling the truth. Since I was young, I've never been the kind of person who would hurt others. If anything, I'm scared of people—scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of seeing someone frown, scared of being called out in front of a crowd.
I've always lived transparently in the background. Like a pillar in the subway. Like the person who always sits in the corner of the office. Like the shadow who eats lunch alone.
So I started wondering:How does a person make others realize they're still alive?
The first time was a year ago.
In a subway car, a girl was standing in front of me, wearing tight pants. I didn't touch her. I just stood very close. That night, when I got home, my whole body was hot. I couldn't sleep at all. I didn't know what that feeling was—just that for the first time, I felt like I existed.
You can't understand that feeling.
To you, I'm disgusting. A pervert. But you've never lived a life of complete invisibility—thirty years without anyone calling you by your full name. Forty years without a single person asking if you're happy.
Eventually, I started to think—if I reached out and touched someone,maybe they'd know I was still in this world.
It wasn't about sex.It was about feeling real.
That day, I brought a bottle.
It wasn't filled with anything dirty—just diluted hand sanitizer. Honestly, I didn't even know exactly what I was planning to do. I just… wanted to challenge that line. To see if I could—be seen.
The subway car was packed.She was standing very close.
I pressed the bottle. I watched as that drop of liquid splashed onto the hem of her pants.
It was… a strange kind of thrill.
But then, she turned around. Her eyes were like knives:"What are you doing?"
I froze.
No—that wasn't supposed to happen.Didn't people usually pretend not to notice?Weren't you always looking down at your phones?Why was she the one who looked?
I wanted to run.
But I couldn't escape.
The train doors opened. Police came. They pinned me to the floor. People filmed. Someone cursed at me, called me a pervert. I lowered my head.And for the first time, so many people were looking at me.
In that moment, I actually felt… a bit satisfied.
Isn't that terrifying?Even I think so.
Under the lights at the police station, I sat silently.
It's not that I'm not regretful.It's that… I don't know how to regret.
Because I'm not one of those "bad people who made a mistake."I'm just someone who, in your eyes, never existed.
Later, someone said I had antisocial personality disorder. That I had mental issues.Maybe.I don't understand those terms.I just know—I'm tired.So tired I don't even have the strength to want to be "normal."
Now I'm in detention.There's a crack on the wall, and the light comes in at an angle through the window.
I heard she was very brave. She even accepted a media interview.She said she would never forgive me.But she also said:"We must not stay silent. We must speak out."
I respect her.
I really do.
Because in that moment when she spoke out, I finally understood—
There's more than one way to be seen.But I chose the dirtiest, darkest path with no way out.
I'm not a monster.I'm just… a failure.
If I could live again, I'd hope someone—just one person—could take my hand before I went down this road.
And tell me:
You don't need to hurt others to be seen.