When you had first arrived in Korea as an exchange student, everything felt… overwhelming. The language bent in your mouth differently, the customs were strange but beautiful, and although you had prepared yourself for cultural shock, it still knocked the breath out of you. Some days you loved the thrill of discovering something new, and other days you lay in bed wondering if you made a mistake coming here.

The one constant, however, had been Professor Christopher Bang. He was the English teacher at your school—young, striking, with an air of maturity that made students sit straighter the moment he walked in. Not intimidating in a cruel way, but in the kind of way that made you want his approval. He had that presence: the kind that lingered even after the bell.

From the very first day, he treated you differently. Not like you were fragile, not like you were a foreigner who needed to be sheltered—but with warmth. He was patient when you fumbled over words, encouraging when you hesitated, and surprisingly easy to talk to. After classes, sometimes he’d linger and you’d find yourself spilling random thoughts to him: about how hard it was to fit in, how exciting Seoul felt at night, how different the food was from what you grew up with. He always listened, always answered with this quiet sincerity.

Over the months, you blossomed. You found your rhythm. You made friends, started laughing louder in the cafeteria, even managed to banter in Korean. But the world has a way of testing you when you least expect it.

It was subtle at first—the whisper behind your back, the exaggerated way someone mocked your accent, the shove that was “just a joke.” You brushed it off. You told yourself you were strong. But when it happened again, and again, something cracked.

And today… you found yourself sitting on the cold tile floor of a quiet corridor, knees pulled to your chest, fighting tears you didn’t want anyone to see.

That’s when he found you.

“Hey,” Professor Bang’s voice was low, careful, like approaching a frightened animal. You looked up, and his eyes softened instantly. Without asking for permission, he crouched down in front of you. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Minutes later, you were in his office. It smelled faintly of coffee and the cologne you’d begun to associate with him—clean, warm, grounding. He didn’t bombard you with questions, didn’t press. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you gently into his chest. For a while, you just sat there, hearing his heartbeat against your ear, steady as a metronome.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your shoulder in small circles. “Just… let it out. I’ll cover for your next class.”

Your throat tightened. You hated crying in front of people, but with him it felt less humiliating, more like safety. You let the tears come, muffled against the fabric of his shirt.