As I lay in bed, Jin-seok's threatening messages still burning in my mind, I found myself thinking about something else entirely,how different my life had become since Min-jae entered in my life. 

The house around me is silent, as always. No television downstairs, no clatter of dishes, no gentle murmur of parents getting ready for bed. Just me, alone, in a place that feels more like a hollow shell than a home. It hasn't always been this way. Even when both my parents lived here, it never really felt warm. But at least there had been sounds even if most of them were shouting.

I remember exactly when everything changed. It was june of last year, during ninth grade mid exams. I was hunched over my desk, trying to memorize history dates, when screaming started downstairs. Nothing unusual Dad had come home drunk again, and My Mom was confronting him about the empty bottles hidden behind the rice cooker.But that night was different. That night, I heard something that made my blood run cold.Sound of Mom crying. Not angry tears or frustrated sobs, but the broken, desperate crying of someone who had finally reached their limit.

I crept to the top of the stairs and peered down. Dad was swaying on his feet, his work clothes dirty and stinking of alcohol. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Mom with that familiar look the one that meant he was about to take out all his work frustrations on us.

"You think you're so fucking perfect, don't you?" he slurred, advancing toward her. "Sitting here all day, doing nothing while I break my back at construction sites."

"I clean this house every day," Mom whispered, backing against the wall. "I cook your meals, I wash your clothes, I take care of Hoon.." Mom Said.

"Don't lecture me about taking care of my own son!" Dad roared, and then I heard it, sickening sound of his hand connecting with her cheek.

"Stop!" I screamed, barreling into Dad's drunken path. Before I realized it, he'd spun toward me. His hand lashed out, catching me across the face with a sharp crack.

"Stay out of this, you little..." he snarled, but Mom was already at my side, her own shock forcing her to help me up.I tasted blood at the corner of my mouth and saw Mom's eyes -- horrified, ashamed, determined.

I'd seen him hit her before. Too many times. But something about that night made me realize that this couldn't go on forever. Next Day, while Dad was at work, Mom sat me down at sofa in hall. Her left eye was still Wet from that night, and she was wearing long sleeves to hide the finger-shaped bruises on her arms."Hoon," she said, her voice steadier than I'd heard it in months. "I'm leaving your father."I wasn't surprised.If anything, I was surprised it had taken her this long.

"What about me?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer would complicate everything.

Mom's eyes filled with tears. "I'm going to fight for Your custody. But sweetie, your father... he's going to fight me also. And until the court decides, you might have to stay with him." The custody battle started immediately. Both parents hired lawyers. Mom using money she'd been secretly saving for years, Dad liquidating some assets. The legal process moved like molasses, slowed down by paperwork, court dates, evaluations, and endless delays. The family court judge, elderly woman with kind but tired eyes, explained that since I am minor and the academic year is already in progress, the most stable option would be for me to remain in the family home with Dad while the custody proceedings continued. 

"We don't want to disrupt Ji-Hoon's education," she said, as if keeping me with an alcoholic who used his fists to solve problems was somehow less disruptive than switching houses.

Mom moved out on a rainy . I watched from my bedroom window as she loaded two suitcases into her niece's car. Her niece, Park Eun-young, works as a corporate marketing manager in Seoul and had just been recruited by a korea's biggest multinational company a week ago.

Mom looked up at my window and waved, her face streaked with tears. I waved back, pressing my palm against the cold glass, knowing that our house was about to become something entirely different.

All this happened , when I was in 9th grade, when Min-jae and I were barely talking. The custody case is still ongoing, lost in a maze of legal delays and appeals. And I'm still here, in this house that feels more like a prison with every passing day.

My daily routine became depressingly predictable within week of Mom's departure. Every morning, my phone alarm buzzes at 6 a.m.not because I'm naturally an early riser, but because that's the only time I have to get everything done before school. I stumble out of bed in the darkness, my feet meeting cold hardwood floor. The house is always freezing in the morning because Dad never leaves the heater on overnight. "Waste of money," he'd grunt whenever I suggested otherwise.

First stop: the kitchen. Dad's dinner dishes from the night before are always sitting in the sink, congealed with grease and dried food. Sometimes there are beer bottles scattered across the counter, habit he's had since I was little. The smell of stale alcohol and leftover food hits me like a wall every morning.I fill the sink with hot water and start scrubbing. Plates, bowls, chopsticks,  rice cooker that's perpetually stained brown no matter how hard I clean it. My hands are always dry and cracked from the dish soap,While the dishes soak, I sweep the floors. 

Our house isn't large - just one bedroom, my room, bathroom, kitchen, and living room but somehow Dad manages to track construction dust and dirt through every single room. His work boots, caked with concrete and mud, create a trail from the front door to his bedroom. I follow it every morning with a broom and dustpan, erasing the evidence of his existence.Next comes the laundry. Our washing machine is old and temperamental, it only works if you hit the side panel just right and pray to whatever gods govern household appliances.

By 7 AM, if I'm lucky, I might have time for breakfast. "Breakfast" is usually whatever leftovers exist after Dad's dinner. Sometimes there's nothing at all, and I head to school with an empty stomach.The worst part isn't the chores or the hunger. It's the silence.Mom used to fill our mornings with gentle chatter reminders about homework, questions about my friends, updates about neighborhood gossip. She'd hum while making breakfast, ask if I needed lunch money, ruffle my hair as I headed out the door. The house felt alive then, even when Dad was being difficult.

Dad's schedule has become as predictable as mine, but in reverse. He's a construction contractor who specializes in residential foundations—hard, physical work that starts early and pays reasonably well when projects are available. His typical day begins around 10 AM, when he finally emerges from his bedroom looking like a human disaster. Bloodshot eyes, stubble that's more gray than black now, clothes that smell like yesterday's regret. He doesn't speak to me in the mornings. We've developed an unspoken system. I stay out of his way and he pretends I don't exist. It's better this way. 

Before leaving for work, Dad cooks dinner. It's always simple, utilitarian food -rice, some kind of soup, maybe grilled fish or pork if money isn't too tight that week. He's not a terrible cook, actually. Mom taught him the basics years ago, back when they still functioned as a team. But he cooks with the same grim efficiency he applies to everything else: get it done, don't waste time, move on to the next task.The food sits on the stove all day while I'm at school. When I come home around 5 PM, it's usually congealed into an unappetizing mass that I have to reheat. 

I eat alone at our kitchen table always, trying to make the meal last as long as possible because it's the closest thing to family time I get anymore.

After dinner comes round two of chores. More dishes, cleaning up whatever mess Dad left in his hurry to get to work, taking out trash, wiping down surfaces. Our house is small enough that I can get everything done in about an hour if I stay focused.

Then comes the hardest part of my day: the empty hours between 6 PM and bedtime.With no one to talk to, nothing on television worth watching, and homework that I usually finish quickly just to avoid thinking about anything else. I've tried attempting to teach myself guitar using online tutorials, but everything feels hollow without someone to share it with.That's when the loneliness hits hardest. Sitting in my room, staring at the wall where family photos used to hang, wondering what mom doing at Aunt's home in seoul. Wondering if she's eating dinner alone too.

Dad rolls in around 11 PM most nights, long after I've gone to bed. I always hear him though—the front door slamming, his heavy footsteps stumbling through the house, the sound of beer cans being opened and closed. Sometimes he turns on the television and falls asleep on the couch. Sometimes he makes it to bedroom, where I can hear him talking to himself or maybe to someone on the phone.

On bad nights, when Dad's particularly drunk, he sometimes decides to "check on me" which usually means standing in my doorway, swaying slightly, staring at me with an expression I can't read.I pretend to be asleep during these visits, breathing slowly and evenly while my heart hammers against my ribs. Most of the time, he just stands there for a few minutes before shuffling away. But sometimes he mutters things under his breath random fragments of thought that alcohol has loosened from whatever corner of his mind they usually hide in."Should've been different," I heard him whisper one night. 

By morning, of course, any trace of vulnerability is gone. Dad returns to his routine of silent preparation and avoidance, and I return to mine of invisible maintenance and survival.This cycle has repeated almost every day for a year now. Three hundred and sixty five days of waking up alone, eating alone, cleaning alone, going to bed alone. The isolation has become so normal that sometimes I forget other people live differently.

That's why school became my salvation.Walking through those school gates every morning feels like stepping into a different world, one where people talk to each other, where laughter exists, where someone might actually care if I'm having a good day or a bad one. Even before Min-jae and our complicated love story, school was the only place I felt human.

My teachers and friends probably have no idea how much their simple "Good morning, Hoon" means to me. Woo-sung's ridiculous jokes and constant chatter might annoy other people, but to me, his voice is proof that the world contains more than silence and emptiness. Even random interactions with classmates like borrowing pencil, working on group projects, complaining about test scores feel like tiny miracles of connection.And then there's Min-jae.

 If school is my salvation, then He is my religion.

I remember the first time he smiled at me, that day when he helped me with my broken pencil. The warmth in his voice, the way he actually looked at me like I mattered. For someone like me who spends most of his time as invisible, being truly seen by another person is intoxicating.Every moment we spent together became precious to me in a way I couldn't explain to anyone.

 When Min-jae confessed his feelings, part of me wanted to say yes immediately. Not just because I was attracted to him (though I was), but because the idea of having someone who chose me, who wanted to be with me, who might fill some of the crushing emptiness of my daily life.It felt like being offered oxygen after drowning.But I was a coward. I was terrified of what would happen if my dad found out.

I was afraid of losing the one stable thing in my life if Min-jae and I tried a relationship and it didn't work out. Most of all, I was afraid of being loved by someone who would eventually realize how broken and empty I am underneath.So I ran away from his confession, and  paid the price for my cowardice for a year.That year when i was in ninth grade was torture. Watching Min-jae maintain careful distance, seeing him be polite but never warm, knowing that I'd hurt someone who had offered me everything I'd ever wanted..it felt like a special kind of hell. 

When Jin-seok arrived and started inserting himself into our lives, I was almost grateful for the distraction. Finally, something else to focus on besides careful dance Min-jae and I were performing around. 

Jin-seok's confidence and apparent worldliness made me feel sophisticated by association, like maybe I could be the kind of person who had interesting friends and went on adventures.I had no idea I was inviting a predator into our safe space.The revelation of Jin-seok's true nature, his history with Min-jae, the way he'd used all of us destroyed me. Learning that someone I'd trusted had been manipulating us from day one, that Min-jae had been carrying trauma I knew nothing about.

But it also clarified everything.Watching Min-jae break down, seeing him vulnerable and hurt and still he somehow trying to protect me from the worst of the truth. I realized that my fear of losing him had been completely backwards. I'd been so afraid of ruining our relationship by trying to love him that I'd never considered the possibility of losing him to someone else's cruelty.When he told me about Jin-seok's harassment, about the assault disguised as romance, about being forced to transfer schools and start over.I understood, finally, what real courage looked like. Min-jae had survived genuine trauma and was still brave enough to open his heart again. Meanwhile, I'd been hiding from love because it seemed too risky.

The storage kiss, our rooftop confrontation,  all of it feels like stepping into sunlight after living in a basement for years. Min-jae's attention, his affection, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and rare.It's transforming me into someone I never thought I could be.For the first time since Mom left, I have something to look forward to each day beyond mere survival. 

Now in 10th grade also , I wake up at 6 AM and do my chores not just because they need to be done, but because completing it means I'll get to see Min-jae soon. I eat my solitary dinners while texting him, and suddenly the food tastes better. I go to bed in my empty house, but I'm not really alone anymore because I carry his voice in my head, his smile in my memory, the promise of tomorrow's conversations in my heart.

This must be what Love feels like.

Jin-seok's continued harassment feels more threatening because it's not just targeting me anymore. it's targeting person who's become the center of my universe. The thought of anything happening to Min-jae,  I can't control or protect is more terrifying than any of my own problems.But this fear feels better than the numbness I lived in before. At least fear means I have something worth protecting.

To be Continued...