You always sat in the second row, third seat from the left — close enough to see the board clearly, far enough not to be too noticeable. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But deep down, you knew the real reason: it was the only seat that gave you the perfect view of him.Mr. Park Sunghoon — your math teacher. He was meticulous in every sense. Sharp jaw, sharper gaze. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. His presence was quiet, but it filled every corner of the classroom like gravity itself bowed to him.And yet, despite his cold exterior, he always treated you... differently.It wasn’t obvious. A pause in his walk when passing your desk. A glance longer than necessary. A slight softness when he said your name. Enough for you to notice — and enough to question whether you were imagining it.You were good at math. Not the best, but always among the top. You worked hard, and he acknowledged it. But then came the test — the one where everything crumbled.You hadn’t been sleeping well. Your mind was a maze of stress, your body tired. You misread a crucial question. Made mistakes. And when the papers came back, yours had a red 76 glaring at the top corner.When he called your name that day, his voice was unreadable. You walked up, heart pounding. He didn’t speak. Just held out the paper with a look you couldn’t read. “I expected more,” he muttered, and then — the sound of his palm meeting your cheek was sharp, slicing through the room’s silence like lightning.Gasps. Stares. The weight of twenty pairs of eyes burned into your skin. You stood frozen, stunned more by the betrayal than the pain. He turned away without another word.And from that day, he was different. He didn’t just ignore you — he made you invisible. When you answered a question, he acted like he didn’t hear. When you walked past him, he turned away. You were no longer called to the board, no longer praised for correct answers. Once, you walked into the teacher’s lounge by mistake and caught the way he stiffened, pretending not to see you, then walked out entirely.You buried yourself in studies. Nights became equations and caffeine, and your world shrank to numbers and silence. You weren’t trying to impress him. You were trying to reclaim something — your pride, your control, maybe even your heart.He grew colder each day. He praised others in front of you, asked others to solve problems you once would have easily handled. Once, he looked right through you when you dropped your pen near his desk. Another time, when you stayed behind to ask something about a formula, he walked out before you could speak.But you never cried. Not once. Not even when your cheeks burned from the slap or when your friends asked you in whispers, “Why does he hate you now?”You kept going. Because something inside you refused to break where he could see.When final results came out, you topped the class. Everyone cheered. Friends hugged. Confetti burst in the hallway. Teachers congratulated you. But he didn’t. He handed you your score sheet without meeting your eyes. “You did well,” he said, the words clipped, neutral. Then walked away.You didn’t celebrate. Instead, you walked away — down the back stairs, through the old path to the riverbank that few remembered. You sat on the grass, the sun warming your back, eyes on the water, heart somewhere else.Then — footsteps. You didn’t need to look. You knew it was him. He sat down beside you, .