It was Friday — the end of the week, finally. 

At least for two days, I don’t need to see all those things that get on my nerves. Friends walking down the hallway in groups of three or four, the chaos that reigns in the classroom, the sweaty jeans on the floor of the changing room.

Leaves fall as I drag my feet slowly towards home.

Afar, I see a group of three children my age. Galloping down the street with lollies in their hands, giggles growing as they near me. Ugh. 

I feel my stomach twist. I try pacing my steps to quickly get past them. Why do these kids prance down the street, to play basketball or Nintendo at one of their homes? Their parents would probably sneak in a snack to urge them to enjoy themselves even more. And I  am always that little girl walking home by myself, eating alone at lunch,  the only person not to be invited to the class clown’s birthday party. Why should things be this way? No answer to be found, as always. 

Throbbing pain starts to grow on the back of my head. No, no. I nod my head. Brush this away. I put on the noise canceling headphones, dialing in to my favorite jazz playlist. A little humming here and there, and the migraine subsides little by little. My own little way of dealing with these situations. So, another day walking home alone, there it goes.

Soon, I stand in front of the door, about to enter the refuge from my brutal school life - home. I pause, taking everything in to cherish this moment.

When I finally push the gate open, everything swarms in in a split second. The yellowish light, the permeating scent of bulgogi and budae-jjigae. Mom walking out of the long hallway, her apron covered with red gochujang paste here and there, probably from the jjigae, my favorite broth. I gaze at her face and her lips tick up, and then I feel a gentle press on my back. Her warmth tickles down my body. Finally, what I desperately needed after a long day - a human being who gives me real affection. 

Then I see dad, standing up from the sofa to give me a hug. He’s not always around, but I know that he is ready for me any time that I really need him. Something that I can never expect from any of my classmates. At home, however, I feel warmth and welcoming even from my siblings, those troublemakers that always end up messing up my room. I am the sun that everyone orbits around. Here, everything celebrates my presence.

* * * * * 

I rise from the bed in the middle of the night. Streaks of pale moonlight seeps into the window. A thick chunk of navy silence fills the air. My dog Remy’s snores gently disturb it, traveling through it in small waves. 

Murky, muffled sounds of murmurings reach my ears as I drag my feet towards the bathroom. A deep voice, somewhat feeling like dad’s, lets out a deep sigh. Then I hear a high-pitched voice marked by long, sustained pauses and sniffles. My mom. 

I inch closer to the thin wall that stands between the living room and the dining room. 

“Mr. Jang called me again today.”

A pause.

“What do we do with her? She’s still not getting along with her classmates.”

“Minji had social problems from a young age…” 

Pause. 

“Our twins said it right. Unless she can make friends by herself, she is done. Her grades won’t matter when she can’t even build connections.”

 “You’re getting a step too far.”

 “But is there anything wrong in what I just said? Society doesn’t value antisocials. It moves on without them.”

 “I said enough!”

The booming of dad’s voice startles me. Antisocial. Social problems. The words swirl in my head, swallowing up my brain. Heat rushes up my throat, crawling up onto my face. I have to cover my mouth in a desperate attempt to avoid a squeak. One by one, slowly, tears drop on my pajamas. 

For what felt like an hour, I lay crouching on the floor. 

Back then, I was five. 

Bouncing up and down, I swung open the front door, waving a piece of paper in my hand. I dashed straight towards mom and proudly handed over my painting to her. My eyes keenly stared at hers. Her face lightens up in rapture. 

“What an artist we have here! What’s this little swan doing in this pond?”

“A duckling! He’s swimming with his family after school!”

Mom kisses me, saying how proud of me she is. Then, bening herself over the kitchen table, she grabbed a magnet and attached my drawing to the refrigerator. My mind bubbled with joy –a piece of art in an exhibition!

But when I walked downstairs for breakfast the next morning, the drawing was not to be found where it was. A starkly colorful piece of art is displayed in its stead, its unfamiliarity as shocking as its obvious professionality. My mom’s face was beaming with a big smile when she told me to look at it, but I was not hearing anything about its details. 

That evening, I crouched in a corner of my room, crying. 

* * * 

“Wake up, Minji! It’s seven o’clock already!”

The next morning after I overheard my parent’s conversation, I wake up to mom's call as usual. When I get downstairs I see mom rolling carrot, spinach, and other ingredients for kimbap. She probably woke up an hour before, trying to prepare all of them in her elaborate cooking process, sprinking pepper on the beef and seasoning the spinach with garlic and sesame sauce. Dad is standing in the corner of the kitchen in his pajama, yawning.

We sit around the dining table. Then we eat the kimbap, carrying on the usual, same conversation, on how flavorful they are, or how the bone soup that’s served alongside it is just the right warmth. But when my parent’s eyes meet mine, I see the hollowness in their gaze. They are probably too afraid to bring up their little secret from last night.

I grin, as if nothing is wrong. They would never know: I will never feel the same towards them.