SAVED

FRANKENSTEIN

When I arrived home, my father was already there, a rare occurrence since his work as a hotel manager often kept him at the hotel well into the evening. The scent of his favorite dish, spaghetti carbonara, wafted through the apartment. He looked up from the stove as I entered, a smile lighting up his weary face. "You're home early," he said, his voice gruff but welcoming.

I approached him tentatively, the crumpled bills from the bookstore feeling heavy in my pocket. "Yeah," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. "Mina's grandpa gave us the night off."

He stirred the sauce, the clink of the spoon against the pot punctuating the silence that had settled between us. I reached out, my hand hovering over the money, unsure of how to proceed. "Dad," I began, "I got paid today. I brought this home for you."

He glanced at the cash, his expression unreadable. "What's this for?" he asked, his tone a mix of surprise and wariness.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my heart racing. "It's just... I know things have been tight," I said, my voice small. "I thought maybe it could help with... you know, bills and stuff."

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving mine. For a moment, I saw the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the weight of his own burdens. "Thank you," he said finally, his voice gruff. "But I can't take this."

I frowned, confused. "Why not?"

He turned to face me fully, the spoon still in hand. "Because, sweetheart, I don't need your help. Not like that." He stepped closer, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. "I'm your dad. It's my job to take care of you, not the other way around."

I felt a sting of tears in my eyes, a mix of relief and sadness. "But I want to help," I whispered.

He pulled me into a hug, his embrace tight and comforting. "I know," he murmured into my hair. "And you do. Just by being here, by being you." He released me gently. "Now, go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

As we sat at the kitchen table, the steam from our plates fogging the windows, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me. But for now, the warmth of his presence and the familiar taste of his cooking were enough to soothe the storm in my chest. I pushed thoughts of Miss Kim aside for the time being, focusing on the here and now, the comforting rhythm of our conversation, the way the candles on the table flickered in the soft light.

After dinner, I retreated to my room, the book Mina had given me feeling like a beacon of hope. I opened the cover, the pages crackling with the promise of a new world. But as I read, my thoughts kept drifting back to Miss Kim, to the way she'd smile when she entered her class. The words on the page blurred together, and I found myself doodling her name in the margins.

The silence of the night pressed in around me, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. I knew I couldn't keep my feelings bottled up much longer. I had to tell her, had to let her know how much she meant to me. The fear of rejection and the potential consequences danced in the shadows of my mind, but I knew I couldn't live with the 'what ifs' anymore.

With trembling hands, I wrote a letter, my heart spilling out onto the paper. It was clumsy and raw, but it was the truest thing I'd ever written. I folded it carefully, pressing it to my chest before tucking it into my backpack. Tomorrow, I'd find a way to give it to her, to let her know the depth of my admiration.

As I lay in bed, the moon casting a silver glow across my room, I knew that no matter what happened, I'd be taking a step towards my own truth. And in the quiet of the night, that felt like the most romantic act of all.

I closed my eyes and let myself drift into a world where Miss Kim's laughter was the soundtrack of my dreams. In my mind's eye, she was more than just a teacher; she was a muse, a guiding star in the vast cosmos of academia. Her words, her passion for poetry, they became the very fabric of my subconscious, weaving together a tapestry of hope and fear.

Sleep finally claimed me, I dreamt I was walking through the school halls, my heart racing as if being chased by a pack of dogs. I made my way through the narrow walls cautiously, looking around for any signs or students . And then, she was there—Miss Kim, standing at the end of a hallway that seemed to never end.

Her eyes met mine, and the air grew thick with anticipation. I took a step closer to her, the letter clutched in my hand, feeling the weight of my confession pressing against my palm. But as I reached out to give it to her, she disappeared, leaving only the echo of her laughter and the scent of chalk and ink behind.