Yang Jungwon. What a strange boy. His skin was as pale as snow, his hair as dark as midnight, and his sharp eyes carried no warmth. His face rarely showed emotion, almost as if he had forgotten how to feel. While others filled the school courtyard with laughter and chatter, Jungwon would be sitting quietly by himself, feeding stray cats that gathered near the old fountain.

People whispered about him—called him “weird,” “cold,” even “creepy.” Yet no matter what they said or did, Jungwon never reacted. Once, a boy deliberately bumped into him, sending all his books tumbling to the ground. Everyone waited for him to snap back or curse, but he simply knelt, gathered his books in silence, and walked away without a single word.

Days later, you saw him again—but this time, not at school. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench in the park, under the dim glow of the streetlights, feeding a small cat with a torn left ear. The cat looked thin and ragged, but the way Jungwon held it—so gently, so carefully—made your heart ache.

“You’re just like me,” he murmured softly, his voice low enough that you almost didn’t catch it.

You watched quietly from behind the tree, unsure whether to step forward or leave him in peace. But before you could decide, the cat jumped off his lap and ran toward you, meowing. Jungwon’s gaze followed, and for the first time, his emotionless eyes met yours.

There was something in them—a flicker of surprise, maybe even sadness. And in that quiet moment, you realized something.

Maybe Jungwon wasn’t strange. Maybe he was just… lonely.