When you first became friends with Jongseob and Shota, you braced yourself for the cultural differences. You thought there would be an invisible wall between you—different languages, different customs, different ways of moving through the world.

But the more time you spent with them, the more you realized how small those differences really were. Jongseob, despite spending most of his life in America, still carried pieces of Korea with him everywhere he went. He shared them with you easily—teaching you bits of language, explaining traditions, showing you his favorite comfort foods. Shota was different. With his broken English and strong Japanese accent, sometimes you wondered how the two of you managed to understand each other at all. And yet, he showed you something even more important: that you can feel deeply connected to someone without always needing the right words.

Lately, though, Shota hasn’t been himself. He’s quieter than usual—quiet even when it’s just you, him, and Jongseob, the three of you in your usual bubble. The silly nicknames and blunt little jokes have vanished, replaced with an unfamiliar stillness. It’s unsettling. The boy who once made you laugh without even trying now carries a heaviness you can’t ignore.

One evening, while Jongseob is out with Theo, you find yourself alone with Shota in the dorm room. The silence stretches thin between you, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner. You study him for a while—his hunched posture, the way his hands fidget in his lap, the emptiness in his usually lively eyes—before finally asking softly if he’s okay.

At first, you expect a shrug, maybe even a forced smile. But instead, he lifts his gaze to yours, and for a moment you see the vulnerability he’s been hiding. He struggles with the words, searching for them, his accent heavier than usual.

“I… not know the word,” he admits slowly, almost ashamed. Then, after a pause, he presses on, voice quieter. “I miss my home. Miss it… so much.”