Two Faces

Chapter 1

There's something fascinating about a woman's grace—a natural lightness in her gestures, as if each movement told a silent story. It's a bit like the dance of autumn leaves, right before they fall. I often find myself admiring that grace, not out of desire, but from a deep curiosity, as if somewhere, I'm trying to understand a language I've always known without ever truly speaking it. Sometimes, I feel this invisible weight, tightening around me each day, a latent discomfort of being trapped in a body that feels foreign, yet familiar, like a suit you never really chose but are forced to wear by your mother to attend your aunt's wedding. Everything feels strangely out of place—every gesture, every look in the mirror—a reflection that doesn't seem like mine, resonating with an unfamiliarity I can't shake.

I've always had a profound admiration for Woman. She embodies so much beauty, grace, mystery. It's not just a matter of appearance or clothing style but an essence, a subtle, almost indescribable force. What I envy isn't mere imitation; it's a deep, almost spiritual connection, a desire to be and feel things as they do. Maybe I romanticize all of this a bit too much, but it's a thought that inhabits me, following me in silence every moment, and has been for a long time.

Today, I walk through the corridors of my overpriced university, a spectator of the daily play around me. People bustle around, laughter erupts, conversations cross paths and mingle. Familiar faces pass by, some nod slightly, others ignore me, too caught up in their own lives. But I observe them, detached, as if it's all just distant background noise, a scene that doesn't belong to me.

They exchange smiles, anecdotes, pressing against each other in a symphony of gestures and knowing glances. And I walk past them without really seeing, my mind elsewhere, trapped in this monotonous and hollow life where each day mirrors the last, where every face is just another shadow in my daily existence. I move forward, mechanically, without emotion, through this setting I know by heart but never truly belong to.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to participate, to be like them, caught up in the whirl of these connections that seem so simple, so natural. But this thought vanishes as soon as it appears, erased by weariness and indifference. Maybe, deep down, I'm just clinging to this routine as a way to hide, to avoid facing the questions that burn silently within me. So, I continue moving forward, solitary in this crowd, drifting from room to room without leaving a trace, a spectator of a life that seems to belong to others, but not to me.

Once I reach the tutoring room, I take a seat, setting my books on the table. A few minutes later, the door opens softly, and Mark Lee walks in, closely followed by Haechan. Together, they seem bound by a complex and intriguing relationship. Mark, with his warm gaze and that smile that could brighten the darkest days, exudes a quiet confidence. Others can't help but feel at ease in his presence, without him even having to try. His generous spirit stands in stark contrast to Haechan's.

Haechan, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. As a chaebol's son, he carries a coldness that conveys an image of power and authority. His face, often expressionless, can make anyone shiver who dares to challenge him. He radiates an intimidating aura, a heavy silence that encourages people to fear him, to keep their distance. His wealth has given him a status others respect, but he's much more than that. People look at him not just out of fear but also with fascination, as if, deep down, his true nature remains hidden behind that rigid facade.

Their energies are radically different, yet their unlikely friendship defies conventions. Haechan, with his distant air, and Mark, with his open spirit, form a duo that many consider strange. But they have been best friends for over fifteen years, sharing a silent loyalty that few understand. In this dynamic, I feel like both an observer and an intruder, wanting to approach this bond that seems both unbreakable and strangely out of reach.

I greet them with a nod, a bit nervous despite myself. Haechan ignores me as usual. Though I'm here to help them, it's always strange to share this mentor role while I, myself, still have so much to learn. Mark takes a seat to my right, while Haechan sits across from me, crossing his arms and casting a curious look in my direction.

"So, where should we start?" Mark asks, flipping through his notes.

I make an effort to respond, to explain things with precision and simplicity, sometimes getting lost in details out of habit. It's a bit of a reflection of my life here in Seoul: a constant attempt to blend in, to erase myself, to adopt a neutral stance. But when I talk to Mark, it's different. He listens with genuine attention, and every time I look at him, I feel a glimmer of understanding, a kind of silent connection.

"I think last time, Haechan was struggling with accounting; we could start there," I say, avoiding eye contact with him for too long.

Haechan, for his part, seems restless, as if he's impatient for the session to end. He occasionally glances quickly between Mark and me, a slight frown that doesn't escape my notice. I try to ignore it, focusing instead on explaining the accounting software the campus uses, along with the exercises I've prepared for them.

Yet, deep down, there's a persistent whisper, a voice I try to silence, urging me to observe my movements, adjust the tone of my voice, absentmindedly tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. As if, somewhere, I were searching for a certain harmony, a subtle expression that eludes others' gaze.

The minutes pass, and gradually, Mark begins to grasp the concepts I'm explaining. A satisfied smile lights up his face, and despite myself, I feel a quiet warmth, a discreet pride in having helped him. I tell myself it must be nice to be like him—effortlessly confident, steady as a rock, and yet capable of listening, of understanding others.

After more than an hour, the session ends, and they stand up. Mark thanks me with that same sincerity I find so rare, while Haechan remains silent, watching me again with that indecipherable look. I watch him leave, feeling a strange mix of discomfort and envy, a contrast that unsettles me without me really understanding why.

On the way back, I find myself replaying every detail, every gesture, every word exchanged. Maybe, deep down, it's this complexity, this contrast between the image we present and the one we long for, that draws me so deeply to others.