The day Park Sunghoon walks into your classroom, everything feels slightly off.

He’s taller than most, posture straight but uncertain, hands clenched around the straps of his backpack like it’s the only familiar thing he owns. He bows politely to the teacher, says something in Korean, and then goes quiet.

You understand immediately.

He doesn’t speak English. Not a word.

The teacher scans the room and then points to the empty seat beside you.

“You’ll sit here,” she tells him slowly, gesturing.

Sunghoon nods, walks over, and sits down next to you. When he turns to look at you, his eyes widen just a little, and he offers a shy, crooked smile.

From that day on, you become his lifeline.

You explain assignments in simple words, pointing at the book, drawing little pictures in the margins. Sometimes you repeat the same sentence three, four times, changing it slightly each time until his eyes finally light up in understanding.

Other times… they don’t.

He struggles. A lot.

And people notice him.

He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed—soft features, sharp jawline, eyes that pull attention without trying. Girls whisper about him in the hallways, pass notes with his name written in hearts.

But attention at your school is a double-edged sword.

The bullies find him quickly.

They speak in fast, mocking English, knowing he won’t understand. They laugh when he tilts his head in confusion. When he asks what they said, they grin and tell him it was a compliment.

He believes them.

The next day, you hear him repeat the same words to someone else, smiling proudly—not realizing he’s insulting them.

Your chest tightens.

You start correcting him gently. Teaching him what words really mean. Explaining tone. Explaining sarcasm. Explaining cruelty.

And then you make a decision.

You start helping him after school.

At the library. At your kitchen table. Sometimes just sitting on the grass, practicing basic conversations. He listens carefully, brows furrowed in concentration, repeating words slowly until they stick.

The first year passes like that.

By the end of it, Sunghoon understands English well enough to follow conversations. He still misses a few words here and there, but he no longer looks lost.

And something else changes too.

He grows.

Not just taller—stronger. More confident.

Second year comes, and suddenly everyone knows his name.

They vote him Most Handsome in School. His popularity skyrockets. The same people who once mocked him now try to stand beside him.

But the bullies don’t scare him anymore.

When they say something cruel, he fires back without hesitation—or simply rolls his eyes and walks away, dignity intact.

You watch it all with quiet pride.

Because you remember the boy who didn’t understand a single word. The boy who trusted too easily. The boy who sat next to you, whispering, “Can you help me?”

And now, when he looks at you and smiles—confident, warm, grateful—you know something no one else does.

He didn’t get here alone.