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Part 1: "The Day Begins"
A shrill noise tore through the silence of the room, yanking me back to reality. That damn alarm clock.
I opened my eyes with a grimace, vision blurry, still caught in the haze of sleep. The white ceiling above me seemed to stretch endlessly, and for a moment, I wondered why I even had to get up. Another day. Another boring day in this boring world, in this boring school where every minute dragged on like a repetitive echo of a monotonous existence.
I stretched lazily, stifling a sigh.
No, I told myself, I’m not going to school today. What difference will it make? Missing one day won’t kill me.
I let my head fall back onto the pillow, eyes closing again. But just as sleep was about to embrace me once more, a sound pierced the calm of the room. A familiar sound, almost irresistible.
A call. A voice.
<< Ken… >>
It was a soft, clear voice, but full of that kind of insistence you just can’t ignore. It vibrated in the air, cutting through the fog of my laziness.
I blinked, still half-asleep.
The voice… I recognized it well, even in this drowsy state.
<< Ken… Time to get up. >>
I slowly sat up, my body still heavy with fatigue. The voice came from the door of my bedroom.
I sighed again, but this time, it wasn’t a sigh of resignation. No, it was a sigh heavy with tiredness and frustration.
The voice… it was my mother, Haejin Jinheon, probably standing there in the hallway.
<< Still dreaming in there? >>
She wasn’t the type to let me slack off too long. She knew how much I hated school, but she never accepted me staying in that endless torpor.
I heard her walking away. No anger in her voice, just a kind of calm stubbornness. She never gives up.
I let out an exasperated sigh and finally got out of bed. The sounds of the outside world hit me: the murmur of Seoul city, the distant sounds of a daily life that never stopped.
I didn’t want to take part in any of it, but I had no choice.
<< Ken, wake up, sleepyhead! >>
she called insistently.
I groaned, annoyed.
<< Yes, I’m coming. No need to yell. >>
I stretched lazily, eyes half-closed, my thoughts drifting between languages, and mumbled in barely audible German:
<< Es bringt nichts, mich zu drängen. >>
( There's no point in pressuring me .)
There was a pause in the hallway, then my mother’s voice answered, firm and familiar. That strange mix of gentleness and steel I knew so well.
<< What did you say, young man? >>
I knew that was coming. It always went like this.
I sighed again, a bit of irritation in my voice.
<< Nothing, nothing. I didn’t say anything.>>
I could almost feel her gaze through the door, silently watching me. But she didn’t answer right away. She knew that even if I resisted, I would end up getting up. She never lets go.
---
Part 2: "Misty Morning and Stubborn Love"
I finally got up, dragging my feet to the bathroom. My movements were slow, almost mechanical. The lukewarm water barely woke me. I stood there silently, eyes lost in space, mind still elsewhere.
Once clean, I dressed without much care. The school uniform: white shirt, black pants, blazer. The tie hung crooked as usual. I never had the patience to fix it properly. Honestly, I didn’t care.
I went downstairs in silence, hair still wet and messy. The kitchen light bathed the room in a calm warmth. Breakfast was already on the table: toast, eggs, fruit.
I sat down without a word, yawning halfway.
That’s when she arrived, energetic as ever.
<< Hurry up, sweetheart, you’re going to be late! >>
She came over, kissed me on the cheek, and affectionately ruffled my already messy hair.
I winced.
<< I’m not a kid anymore. >>
She stepped back slightly, an amused smile on her face. Then, in fluent, teasing Spanish, she replied:
<< ¿Y acaso es pecado amar demasiado a su hijo, especialmente cuando es tan lindo y guapo? >>
( And is it a sin to love one’s son too much, especially when he’s so cute and handsome? )
I rolled my eyes, looking away.
<< Tch… that woman… >>
But deep down, her energy... her warmth... it was the only thing that still anchored me to something real in this world.
---
This phenomenon is my mother. Haejin Jinheon.
She’s invasive, talkative, sometimes exhausting… but she’s everything to me.
The only constant in this unstable life.
The only person I tolerate without needing to wear a mask.
I slowly chewed a piece of toast, eyes half-closed, still groggy. The taste was simple, comforting, like every morning. She moved around me, lively, already ready to leave, coffee cup in hand, her scent lingering in the air.
I didn’t look up.
<< Traveling again? >>
I asked in a neutral, almost absent tone, nibbling on my bread, eyelids drooping.
She didn’t answer right away. She stopped near me, crossed her arms, and with a satisfied little smile, answered in German, her tone playful and proud:
<< Willst du, dass deine Mama bei dir bleibt, hmm? Hmm? >>
( Do you want Mommy to stay with you, hmm? Hmm? )
She tapped my cheek lightly with her finger, which made me flinch. I gently pushed her hand away, not violenty, just with the usual weariness.
<< Tch… always so dramatic. >>
But inside… it warmed me.
Even if I’d never admit it.
She took her cup with a mischievous smile and returned to the front door, ready to face another one of her endless days.
Me? I was just there, in my bubble, in my silence, finishing my toast, trying to convince myself that this day wouldn’t be like the others.
Even though, deep down, I knew everything would start all over again.
---
Part 3: "Mom Leaves... and Traumatizes Me"
She grabbed her suitcase in one hand, her work bag in the other. Her heels clicked lightly on the floor, echoes of her imminent departure.
<< I’m going on a business trip. This time, it’s Spain.>>
she said, her tone light and sing-songy.
I didn’t even turn my head.
<< How long?>>
I asked, still focused on my toast, acting detached.
I felt, rather than saw, her smile widen. She loved teasing me.
<< Three months.>>
she said with almost mischievous glee.
I grimaced briefly. Just for a second, a shadow passed in my eyes, but my legendary calm quickly returned.
<
I muttered in English, indifferent.
I took a sip of milk, still deep in thought. But I could feel her eyes on me. A silence too long. Too... charged.
<
I spat out the milk in a sudden burst, coughing, almost choking, completely caught off guard.
<
I said, eyes wide, caught between embarrassment, disbelief, and shame.
She burst out laughing, joyfully, as if she’d just won a bet.
<
<
<
She walked away, still laughing, and the door closed behind her with a final echo.
And there, in the heavy silence of the apartment...
Only I remained. Me, my bowl, and my deep embarrassment.
<< That woman’s going to kill me before she turns 60. >>
I thought, slumping over the table.
---
You’ve just seen a glimpse of my daily life.
My mother, Haejin Jinheon, is not an ordinary woman. A high-ranking representative of an international company, she spends more time on planes than in this apartment. Spain today, Dubai tomorrow, maybe Tokyo next.
She speaks seven languages fluently. Yeah, seven and probably more. I’ve lost count. Korean, English, Spanish, French, German, Japanese, and a bit of Arabic... or was it Russian? Maybe both.
Of course, it rubbed off on me.
Growing up, she often spoke to me in multiple languages at once. Sometimes in the same sentence. A weird habit, but it became our unique way of communicating. We hate monotony even in words.
The result? I speak multiple languages too. Not to show off, but because it’s instinct now. Korean for politeness, English for sarcasm, German for grumbling, French for drama… each language has its mood, its weight, our style.
It’s chaotic. Like her. Like me.
But it’s our chaos. And strangely, I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
I left the apartment, bag slung over my shoulder, fatigue still clinging to my face. The Seoul sun filtered between buildings, bathing the streets in a pale, calm light.
As I descended the stairs, I passed Mrs. Park, an elderly neighbor setting her plants on the balcony. Like every morning, her gaze landed on me with a mix of affection and curiosity.
<
Honhyeol.
Mixed-blood.
A word that slips easily into conversation, but always leaves an invisible mark. Not quite an insult. But never fully neutral, either.
I gave her a polite nod.
<< Annyeonghaseyo, ajumma.>>
I was born here. I’ve always lived here.
But my reflection tells a different story.
Light brown skin, straight black hair, ruby-red eyes a mix no one can ignore. Not fully Korean. Not entirely something else either.
And if you’re wondering how I came to be...
My mom was 25. She was in New York on a business trip. One evening, a cocktail party, too many drinks, too much trust. An African-American man, whose name she never revealed. A one-night stand.
She returned to Korea thinking everything would go back to normal. Then she found out she was pregnant, with me.
In a strict family, chained to codes and appearances, her pregnancy was an earthquake. Rejection, misunderstanding, isolation. But she didn’t give in.
She left her family. Chose to live alone. Raise me alone. Not with cold rules or rigid principles, but with love raw, pure, and sometimes overwhelming. She wanted to create what she never had: a real family. Even if the world judged her.
I was born of that choice.
A courageous, chaotic, but fully owned choice.
So yeah, whatever. I’m a honhyeol.
But I’m Ken Jinheon.
And no one gets to redefine me.
---
I walked through the lively streets of Seoul toward school, hands in my pockets, earbuds in, but no music. The city sounds were enough. Car horns, footsteps, loud conversations. Yet I walked at my own pace. I never rush. The world moves fast enough without me.
Whispers, hurried voices. A rhythm I knew by heart.
And, like always… the stares.
People turn around.
Sometimes discreetly. Sometimes not. Captivated. I’ve gotten used to it.
I pretend not to notice, but the weight of their eyes hangs in the air. Am I a monster? No.
They don’t look at monsters like that, not with such intensity, not with those eyes.
It’s not quite fear. Not quite rejection.
It’s... fascination. Fantasy.
Like they’re seeing something unreal.
An elf. A mythical creature. A legend walking modern streets.
A character from fiction or fairytale.
That’s what their eyes say. Pfft.
Me? I ignore them. I’m not from their world. And they know it.
Across the street, a group of girls sat at a café terrace, staring at me openly. Their eyes scanned me from head to toe, like admiring a piece of art behind a golden window.
Whispers:
<
<
<
<
Pfft. The same old story.
Yeah. I’m very handsome, apparently.
It’s not vanity or arrogance, it's just the truth. A fact repeated so often it’s almost boring.
Hate me if you want for being honest “but remember: we live in an unequal and unfair world.”
But it’s not just how I look. It’s… everything.
Straight black hair, a few strands falling before my eyes, the rest flowing back.
Ruby-red eyes, piercing, hypnotic
like a demon born to rule the world.
Light brown skin, rare here.
Taller than average. And a presence I can’t hide, even if I tried.
And above all, a blend of traits too diverse, too unstable to fit into Korea’s rigid norm.
But in me, it’s all fused, integrated, natural.
And yet...
<
I frowned for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh and said in a neutral tone:
<< Pfff. I don’t give a damn what people think. >>
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