Lee Jae-an loaded the trunk and shut it. Even after climbing into the car, he didn’t start the engine, staring instead at the school building for a long while. His gaze drifted past the layered red bricks and the cherry blossoms blooming under the clear spring sunlight, settling on the petals scattered on the ground.

Filthy petals, stained with dirt, trampled over and over until they’d lost their original hue. No one would believe they’d once sprouted from the same buds up above, so wretched was their state. Jae-an, pale and hollow-eyed, pressed his forehead to the steering wheel.

“….”

Jae-an had resigned. The process was swift. After a meeting with the principal, he’d handwritten his resignation letter. The principal’s hollow consolation—that quitting before facing disciplinary action was the last way to save face for both Jae-an and the school—drew no response. Before leaving, he’d grabbed a box of belongings left unpacked and offered a stiff bow.

‘The male teacher who got too close with a graduate. The sleaze who got high and threw an orgy. He didn’t seem like the type, but now that I look at him, maybe he does. I knew it.’ The whispers clung to him, relentless to the end.

At first, he wanted to clear up the misunderstanding. He’d thought honest explanations would make people believe him. A foolish notion.

The students he’d taught, those he would’ve taught, and even his colleagues—all looked at him with clouded eyes. The air around him had turned sharp and hostile, an isolating void where he could no longer work.

There was no going back. Jae-an was a fallen leaf, and those who preached against plucking flowers had no qualms about trampling the ones already on the ground. After weeks of struggling, his only conclusion was to quit.

Jae-an lifted his head, rubbing the dark circles under his pale, delicate features. It wasn’t tears—just a reflex from chronic lethargy, the weight of long-standing depression. He shifted gears and drove home, sifting through memories to trace the start of it all.


*****

It began a month ago, in mid-March, when the biting chill of late winter had softened.

The new school year was always hectic. The heavy, tense air in the senior classroom pressed on Jae-an, their homeroom teacher, as keenly as it did the students. Even the friendlier teachers struggled to keep their smiles in March.

Jae-an, never one for warmth, found himself droning on about the March mock exams from day one, feigning a gravity that felt forced. The flood of administrative tasks left him drained; his face was weary, even in the shower after a late night at work.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, towel-drying his damp hair, Jae-an checked his phone. Unable to ignore pop-ups, he blocked spam texts and deleted them one by one. He skimmed group chats with colleagues, leaving just one message unread.

Seo Jae-rim: You left your watch, hyung. Want me to bring it?

Jae-an glanced at his wrist. He’d gone straight to work from Jae-rim’s restaurant yesterday and forgotten the smartwatch left on the counter. Too distracted all day, he only noticed the bare feeling after reading the message. With a soft sigh, he typed a reply.

Me: I’ll grab it next time.

Seo Jae-rim: Cool. What’re you up to?

The “read” receipt popped up instantly. Another message followed, but Jae-an didn’t respond. He flipped his phone over, plugged it into the charger, and headed to the kitchen. He ate a refrigerated sandwich with a can of beer. After finishing, he swallowed a nerve relaxant, stretched, and returned to the bedroom.

After brushing his teeth, he picked up his phone and opened a video app. Clicking a recommended playlist, he lay diagonally on the bed and closed his eyes. Exhaustion, or perhaps the beer, hit him faster than usual, leaving him drowsy.

Then his phone buzzed. Assuming it was Jae-rim, Jae-an glanced at the preview. His eyes widened slightly.

Teacher, it’s Jang Han-seong. Remember me?

“Huh.”

The message, from an unsaved number, bore a familiar name. A faint, almost fond sound escaped Jae-an’s lips.


*****

“Teacher!”

Jang Han-seong waved from the bus stop. Had he grown taller? Jae-an raised an eyebrow, startled that the kid, once his height, now easily cleared 180 cm. Jae-rim was the same—towering at 193 cm, his muscular frame impossible to ignore. Kids these days grew like weeds.

“It’s cold, why didn’t you wait inside?”

“This place is easy to get lost in.”

The meeting spot was an izakaya ¹Izakaya (居酒屋): A Japanese-style pub serving food and alcohol, common in urban Korean settings. in an Apgujeong alley. Han-seong navigated the winding streets with ease—Jae-an would’ve wandered for ages alone. Following him, Jae-an said, “I thought you’d pick a family restaurant for a meal treat, not an izakaya.”

“I’m an adult now, you know. I like drinking.”

“Bragging, huh, punk?”

Jae-an nagged but ducked his head with a small smile. Drinks with a former student—especially one who’d given him hell last year—felt oddly meaningful.

They descended the stairs to a dim basement, where someone who seemed to be the owner guided them inside. Jae-an, puzzled at being led to a private room for just two, asked, “You know the guy?”

“Yeah, it’s my hyung’s place.”

“Nice.”

“It’s still in soft opening, so the interior’s not fully done.”

The main hall was under construction, so they were shown to a spacious room. Sitting across from Han-seong, Jae-an ordered a two-person sashimi set with sides. They sipped sake ²Sake: Japanese rice wine, served at the izakaya. and chatted.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Teacher.”

“It’s only been three months. But you—you look taller.”

“Grew about three centimeters, but bulking up makes me look bigger.”

Han-seong flexed his arm, showing off his muscles. Jae-an chuckled softly, his gentle demeanor masking the lethargy beneath.

Jae-an had been Han-seong’s homeroom teacher last year. The kid, who graduated in February, had reached out last Thursday, saying college life made him think of Jae-an and offering to treat him to a meal. Jae-an, who’d spent ages convincing Han-seong to apply to college despite his reluctance, was curious about his new life and happily accepted.

Han-seong had been notorious since starting high school. The leader of a rough delinquent crowd, he’d bullied weaker kids and disrupted the classroom. When Jae-an saw his name at the top of last year’s class list, he wasn’t surprised when, on the first day, Han-seong picked a fight with another student for no reason. During counseling, the kid snapped and ignored him, his eyes brimming with defiance. Their pointless standoff dragged through March.

The first time Han-seong met Jae-an’s gaze was when Jae-an noticed a purplish bruise on his cheek.

“Hey, who hit you?”

At first, Han-seong stayed silent, then lied about a sports injury. But Jae-an kept pressing until, after the bruise faded, Han-seong admitted it was his father’s doing. From then on, Jae-an called him to the counseling room relentlessly.

He didn’t do much—just cracked dumb jokes to lighten the mood, brought up old incidents to scold him, or made him clean for no reason. All to coax out even a word about his father.

Han-seong, stubbornly rude at first, began to soften by late September, his eyes dimming as he shared old wounds.

“How’d you tame Jang Han-seong?”

A colleague who’d struggled with him in his freshman year pestered Jae-an for tips in the staff room. “I tried everything,” they’d say.

“Nothing special. Just listened when he was struggling.”

“What, he thinks he’s the one struggling? Give me a break.”

The colleague grumbled at Jae-an’s vague answer, but he only smiled faintly, his pale features betraying none of the weight he carried. There was one reason he could connect with kids like Han-seong: he’d lived it. The violence etched in the bruises on Han-seong’s neck stirred a familiar dread Jae-an couldn’t ignore.

“Home fucking suffocates me. Living with a psycho makes me feel like I’m losing it too.”

“I get it. Still, don’t push it too far—go home when you need to.”

As a kid, Jae-an had carried his own bruises—on his back, hips, calves. But the worst moments weren’t the blows. They were when his mother dabbed salve on them, whispering apologies.

Her fickle warmth left him at a loss. When she was kind, his heart raced unpleasantly, his palms clammy. His mother was a box, its contents a mystery. Sometimes, opening it revealed a voice so gentle it warmed him; other times, a blade-sharp gaze pierced his skin.

Constantly gauging her unpredictable moods was exhausting. From a young age, too young to wield scissors delicately, Jae-an had to calculate the smiles, words, and actions needed to avoid cutting into her heart.

It made him adept at reading others and masking his own feelings, but for ten-year-old Jae-an, it was grueling training.

“How can you look so much like your father?”

“Jae-an, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Son, I made curry. Come eat.”

“When you look at me like that, I just want to die.”

And die she did.

The day before she took her life, Jae-an had made a card for Parents’ Day, writing that he loved her. Handing it to her cautiously, he woke the next day to find her hanging. She’d always flinched under his gaze, so when he found her, he blamed himself first.

“Dad, Mom… she’s not breathing because of me.”

His father, rushing home, comforted a trembling Jae-an. He said she’d been sick, that it wasn’t Jae-an’s fault, that she was in heaven now, free of pain.

“She was sick, so sick…”

Jae-an clung to those words to absolve himself. When peers asked, “Why don’t you have a mom?”—innocent but cruel—he’d say she died of illness. It was a self-imposed hypnosis. She had to have been sick.

But as he grew older, he learned people could end their own lives, and his father’s kind lie became clear. Yet it wasn’t entirely wrong. She was sick—not her body, but her mind, rotting somewhere deep inside.

Her abuse had been unbearable, yet Jae-an craved her love, driven by the stubborn bond of family. The pain and aftereffects of that love-hate were something only those who’d lived it could understand.

Facing Han-seong now, Jae-an chewed slippery sashimi, swallowing old memories with it. When Han-seong asked if the food was good, Jae-an nodded, his gentle voice barely masking his exhaustion.

“It’s tasty. But isn’t this place a bit pricey for a twenty-year-old?”

“I told you, it’s my hyung’s place. Don’t worry, just eat.”

Jae-an sipped sake, listening to Han-seong’s breezy tales of college life. Knowing he’d left his father’s house and seemed stable eased Jae-an’s mind. However, the kid was filling their glasses a bit too quickly.

‘Getting tipsy. I should cover the bill.’

Jae-an stepped out for a cigarette, feeling the buzz. And then, like a clean cut with scissors, his memory stopped.

• 1
  Izakaya (居酒屋): A Japanese-style pub serving food and alcohol, common in urban Korean settings.
• 2
  Sake: Japanese rice wine, served at the izakaya.