You arrived in Seoul as an exchange student, your suitcase rolling over the pavement, excitement and nerves tangled inside you. The city was alive, a strange, pulsing rhythm that made your heart race. Your host family met you at the airport with warm smiles and hugs, speaking quickly in Korean but translating enough to make you feel welcomed. They talked about their son, Bang Chan, endlessly. “He’s really smart,” his mother said, “and he loves music. You’ll see. He’s serious, but a good kid.”

The apartment was cozy, filled with the scent of dinner and the soft sounds of domestic life. Berry, the family’s dog, bounced around your legs, sniffing everything, while Hannah, Chan’s younger sister, jabbered incessantly, showing you your room and helping you unpack. “I hope you like it here! Chan’s swimming class just ended, so he might be tired,” she said, grinning.

You arranged your things carefully, the room slowly feeling like your own. Moments later, Bang Chan arrived, hair damp, uniform slightly wrinkled, backpack slung casually over one shoulder. He greeted his parents with a quiet nod and glanced at you briefly, lips pressed together, expression unreadable. “Hey,” he said softly, then disappeared into his room, leaving a space charged with tension.

School was overwhelming at first. Chan moved effortlessly through the hallways, surrounded by friends, commanding attention with ease. You tried to join in, smile, laugh, spark conversation, but he seemed indifferent. He didn’t ask about your life, didn’t comment on your efforts, and never made a move to bridge the distance between you. You kept trying, day after day, motivated by the knowledge that you’d be here until graduation, but nothing changed.

One evening, after another long day, you found yourself struggling with homework. Hesitant, you decided to knock on his door, hoping for guidance. The light spilled into the hallway as you called softly, “Bang Chan?” No answer. You nudged the door open just a fraction. “I—could you help me with—”

He spun toward you, eyes narrowed, chest tight with frustration. “Why do you keep coming here?” His voice was low, cutting.

“I… I just thought you could help,” you murmured.

His jaw tightened, and he ran a hand through his damp hair. “If you’re trying so hard so I’ll like you,” he began, pacing slightly, every word laced with sharp intensity, “if every smile, every word, every tiny thing is just to make me care—stop. Just stop.”

Your chest tightened; you opened your mouth, but he didn’t wait for a reply. His gaze was cold but raw, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “I’m not someone you can win over by trying. I don’t want this. I can’t… I don’t—” He let out a short, bitter laugh, almost painful.

He stepped closer, pointing a finger, voice sharp, final. “I just don’t like you. Not now, not ever, not because of anything you do. Get out.”

The words were a wall, leaving no space for argument. He shifted slightly, breathing heavy, eyes locked on yours, every ounce of his emotion visible in the tension in his shoulders, the sharpness in his words. The apartment fell silent except for the faint hum of the city outside.

“I just… I can’t. So stop, okay? Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he added, voice clipped but strained, vulnerable despite himself. “I mean it. Get out.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look away. The weight of his honesty lingered, a storm barely contained, leaving you frozen in the hallway, feeling the intensity of someone unwilling to let you in.