April 21 "The Essay Savior"

Dear Diary,

I almost gave up today.

Like… really gave up. On school, on writing, on everything. My essay was due by midnight, and I'd been staring at a blinking cursor since 8:00 a.m. It's not even that I didn't know what to say — I just couldn't say it. The words were in my brain like foggy outlines, but every time I tried to reach for them, they slipped through my fingers.

By 3:00 p.m., I'd deleted more than I'd written. I drank two cups of coffee, ate a half-stale granola bar, and had a full mental breakdown in the bathroom with the fan on so Chae-Sun wouldn't hear.

3:12 PM I texted Jung-Kyo.

I wasn't going to. But my fingers betrayed me.

Me: "Random question. Are you good at essay structure?"

He replied almost instantly.

Him: "Yes. Send it to me."

No questions. No jokes. Just direct, calm, and — dare I say it — comforting.

3:17 PM I sent him the draft. Or the mess pretending to be a draft.

Me: "It's awful. Please don't judge me."

Him: "I'm not here to judge. I'm here to rescue."

I stared at that message for a long time.

3:39 PM Fifteen minutes later, he sent back a marked-up version — with notes. Actual notes. Thoughtful ones. Precise ones. He'd highlighted my strongest points, gently restructured the messy parts, and left comments like:

"This sentence is beautiful. Let it breathe."

And:

"Don't undersell this idea — it's the core of your thesis."

Who even says things like that?

Who reads between the lines like that?

4:00 PM I called him. I didn't plan to. I just… needed to hear his voice.

He picked up on the second ring.

"Hey," he said, like he'd been waiting.

I didn't even say hi. Just blurted, "I don't deserve your brain."

He laughed — that low, smoky kind of laugh that makes you feel like the sun just peeked through clouds.

"Are you seriously panicking over a B+ draft?"

"It's not even B+," I groaned. "It's a C-minus monologue of despair."

He chuckled again. "You're dramatic."

"And you're scarily competent."

We stayed on the line for a moment.

Then he said, "I can swing by if you want help finishing it."

My heart did that stupid little stutter.

Because no one ever offers to show up for me like that. Not for school. Not for anything.

"You'd do that?" I asked.

He didn't hesitate. "Be ready in twenty."

4:41 PM When he knocked, I was still in my pajamas — an oversized sweatshirt, sleep shorts, and mismatched socks. I debated changing.

I didn't.

I think I wanted him to see me like this.

Tired. Flustered. Real.

He looked effortlessly put together, of course. Gray hoodie, dark jeans, hair just messy enough to look expensive. He held a paper bag in one hand.

"Fuel," he said, lifting it. "Gimbap and drinks."

"You're a saint," I muttered.

"Not quite. But I'm good at sentence structure."

5:03 PM We sat at the kitchen table. He opened his laptop beside mine, scanned my draft again, and began helping me rework each section — sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph.

He didn't take over. He didn't act like he knew everything. He just… nudged.

Softly. Intuitively.

"There," he said once, pointing to a transition I'd struggled with. "Move this up. It's your strongest paragraph. Don't bury it."

I nodded, typing as fast as I could.

He leaned in to read something over my shoulder, and I felt it — the warmth of him, the clean cedar scent of his skin, the quiet steadiness of his breath beside mine.

And Diary?

That was the moment my heart fluttered.

5:28 PM I reached to scroll down, and our hands brushed — just barely.

But the contact lit my nerves on fire.

I froze. He stilled too.

Our eyes met. And in that single second, it felt like everything that hadn't been said between us hovered right there in the space between our skin.

He didn't pull away.

Neither did I.

But then I laughed. A little too nervously.

"Sorry," I said, brushing my hair behind my ear. "I think I just touched your soul."

He smiled — slow, soft, unshaken.

"Felt more like you tripped into it."

And I didn't know what to say to that.

So I looked away.

6:05 PM We kept working. More editing. More rewording. More moments where I forgot to breathe when he leaned too close.

At one point, I said something self-deprecating — I don't even remember what — and he immediately cut in.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Talking like you're stupid."

I looked at him, startled.

"You do it a lot," he added, voice gentler now. "But you're not. You're smart. You just doubt yourself so loudly you drown out your brilliance."

My mouth went dry.

He went back to editing like he hadn't just ripped the floor out from under me in the softest way possible.

6:41 PM We finished the final draft. I submitted it.

And just like that, the weight lifted.

I sat back in my chair, exhausted and stunned.

"I think I love you," I joked.

He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Is that the post-essay euphoria talking?"

"Probably," I said. "Or the gimbap."

He nodded. "I'll take either."

7:03 PM He didn't leave right away.

We sat in the living room, the remains of dinner scattered between us. The room dimmed as the sun dipped lower. Streetlights flickered on. My shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.

He noticed.

"You breathe differently when you're not performing," he said quietly.

I looked at him. "Performing?"

"You know. Smiling for the world. Being strong for everyone else."

I bit my lip. "How do you always know when I'm pretending?"

"Because I do it too."

8:15 PM He left just before dark. Said he had early meetings.

I walked him to the door.

Before he stepped out, he turned to me. "You did great today. Not just with the essay. With showing up."

I didn't know what to say. So I just whispered, "Thank you."

He smiled. "Next time, don't wait until you're unraveling."

I nodded.

He lingered a second longer than he needed to. Then he left.

And I stood there in the hallway, heart still fluttering from a hand that barely touched mine.

Not love. Not yet.

But definitely something.

– Mi-Chan