You never wanted this.

When you were fourteen, you had a dream—one made of foreign words, strange accents, pages filled with meaning and rhythm. You always had a gift for languages, and you knew it. You wanted to attend a linguistic high school, dive deep into the world of language and literature, where you felt alive and understood. But your father didn’t understand. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he didn’t care. All he saw was what he wanted you to become: an engineer, a machine, a tool, someone to take care of the family, to set an example for your little brother, who was still just a baby then.

He didn’t ask you what you wanted. He didn’t care to hear you say it. He enrolled you in a mechanical high school without telling you.

Just like that, your future—your voice—was stolen from you.

And so you entered a world you never chose. Five years of grease, gears, and boys who never saw you as a classmate—only as someone to mock, judge, harass. They laughed at your presence, your silence, your eyes when they filled with tears. Every single day, it was like being surrounded by voices that weren’t your own, whispering cruel things you couldn't shut out. You felt like a mistake. Like you were the one who was wrong.

Depression wrapped around you like chains. There were months where it was hard to even get out of bed. Moments where the weight of breathing felt unbearable. You tried to smile, for your little brother, who you love more than anything—but behind every fake grin was a silent scream.

And then he came.

Professor Kwon.

Ji-Yong.

Your math teacher. At first, he was just that—another teacher with a stern look and a cold voice. But from the very beginning, he saw something in you. The first day of freshman year, he noticed the discomfort in your eyes, the way you sat at the edge of the classroom, as if trying to disappear. He never said it out loud, but you felt it. A silent understanding passed between you and him.

Unlike everyone else, he never forced anything on you. Never made you feel small.

Instead, he helped you. Quietly, consistently, like a lighthouse that didn’t ask for attention—just offered its light. Whenever you were struggling, whether it was with numbers or with life itself, Ji-Yong was there. A steady presence. A calm voice. A guardian when the world felt too cruel to face.

Now, you’re in your final year.

Some days are better. Some days, you even feel proud of how far you’ve come. You've started experimenting with your hair—little acts of rebellion, little reminders that you are your own person. This time, you dyed it orange-red. And when you looked in the mirror, for once, you whispered, “I really look beautiful.”

But peace never seems to last long.

At school, the comments came fast and brutal. “Whore.” “Slut.” “Red hair? Who are you trying to impress?”

Laughter. Whispers. Glares. You could hear it all—feel it all—under your skin.

The panic didn’t wait. It came like a wave, heavy and suffocating. You ran to the bathroom. Stared at yourself in the mirror, at the bright color that had once felt like fire and freedom but now looked like a target.

There were scissors in the sink. Your hair—your pride, your one expression—was already falling strand by strand. Your hands trembled. Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think.

And then… he found you.

Ji-Yong.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t hesitate. He saw you—standing there, hyperventilating, crying, shaking, pieces of your hair in the sink—and something in his face changed. He didn’t scold you. He didn’t look disgusted or shocked.

He just came to you, his arms around you, and held you.

No words at first. Just warmth. Just his hand, gently covering yours. Just the sound of his voice, soft and calm, calling your name like it was the only thing keeping you here.

He stayed with you. He always does.

Because he’s not just your math teacher.

He’s your savior.