The sound of chalk scraping against the blackboard was deafening in my ears. It wasn’t the chalk that annoyed me, though—it was him. Han Jiwon.

I clenched my fists under my desk, trying not to look at him, but the urge was too strong. He was sitting in the back row, leaning casually against his chair, one leg over the other, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His dark eyes were sharp, unreadable, and somehow, infuriatingly, they seemed to be looking right at me.

“Miss Min-ji,” the teacher said, adjusting her glasses, “can you solve this problem on the board?”

My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard and pushed my chair out. My classmates’ eyes were on me now, expectant. I hated being in the spotlight. I hated it even more when he was there to watch.

I picked up the chalk, my fingers trembling slightly. Numbers and symbols blurred in front of me, as if the board itself was mocking me. I tried to focus, tried to remember the formulas, but my mind was a complete blank.

Then came the sound that would haunt me for weeks. A soft, almost casual chuckle from behind.

I froze.

I turned just enough to see him leaning back, arms crossed, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Relax,” he said, his voice low but carrying across the room. “It’s not rocket science.”

The class laughed. And I—burning red with embarrassment—wished the ground would swallow me whole.

My teeth gritted, I muttered under my breath, “I hate him.”

No, that wasn’t strong enough. I decided then and there that I would never forgive him for this. Ever.

I finished writing the equation as best as I could, my hands shaking, and returned to my seat without meeting anyone’s eyes—not even his. The whispers and giggles continued, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was keeping my composure. And failing miserably.

After class, I shoved my books into my bag and stormed out to the corridor, ignoring the looks from my classmates. The hallway smelled of polished wood and faint perfume, and the afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, warming everything except my mood.

I didn’t notice him following me out until he was right beside me, hands in his pockets, that same smug expression plastered across his face.

“You know,” he said casually, as if he weren’t the reason my face was still burning, “you’re really not as hopeless as you look.”

I whirled around. “Excuse me?”

“I said you’re not hopeless. Just… dramatic,” he replied, shrugging. “If you spent less time glaring at me, maybe you’d actually solve a problem once in a while.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but no words came out. My pride wouldn’t let me admit that maybe, just maybe, he had a point.

“I don’t need your advice,” I said finally, voice icy. “And I don’t need your approval.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

I stomped off, ignoring the fire in my chest. That was the moment I decided: Han Jiwon would never, ever be someone I liked. He was my enemy. End of story.

The next day, I found myself back in the same classroom, my mind filled with numbers I couldn’t solve. My physics grades were already slipping, and my confidence, which I had carefully built over the years, was crumbling. I prided myself on being a top student, but when it came to Maths and Physics… I was weak. Terribly weak.

And he—of course—was strong in every subject I struggled in.

I noticed him immediately, sitting in his usual spot, leaning casually, scribbling something in his notebook. He didn’t look up as I entered, but I could feel his eyes on me. My stomach tightened.

The teacher handed back the graded tests, and I froze when I saw mine.

48/100.

I couldn’t breathe. Forty-eight. My parents would be furious. My perfect record shattered, and it was all because I couldn’t understand what came so easily to others.

“You need help,” my mother said calmly that evening at home, looking at the paper I tried to hide. Her voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable edge of disappointment.

“I don’t,” I lied immediately, too quickly. My voice shook, but I forced it to sound confident. “I can handle it myself.”

But I knew it wasn’t true. I couldn’t handle it. I hated admitting that. I hated feeling weak. And I hated the one person I secretly knew could actually help me—Han Jiwon.

A few days later, during another lonely study session in the empty classroom, I was staring at a particularly difficult problem on the board when a voice cut through my concentration.

“That’s not how you start.”

I spun around, my chest tightening. And there he was. Han Jiwon, standing casually at the door, leaning against the frame like he belonged there.

“I—I don’t need your help,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

He smirked. “I know. That’s why I didn’t offer earlier.”

He stepped closer, picked up a piece of chalk, and started rewriting the equation neatly. His movements were smooth, confident. “But if you change the sign here,” he explained, “it becomes easier.”

I hated how simple it suddenly looked. I hated how calm he sounded. And most of all, I hated the way my heart skipped a beat.

When he finally left, I could only sit there, staring at the board, my pride and my emotions in turmoil.

I had told myself he was my enemy. I had told myself I hated him. But sitting there, chalk dust lingering in the air and his faint smell of shampoo still in my mind, I realized that maybe… hate wasn’t the only thing I felt.

No. I could never admit that. Not yet.

So I buried it under a mask of anger and frustration, convincing myself I would never, ever need Han Jiwon’s help again.

Little did I know… fate had other plans.

The next morning, I sat at my desk before the rest of the class arrived, staring at my notebook like it held the answers to a life I was quickly losing control over. My hands were still trembling slightly from yesterday, and the memory of Han Jiwon leaning against the classroom door replayed in my mind like a cruel movie trailer.

I hated him. I reminded myself of that. But why did I feel… unsettled every time he was near?

“Min-ji, are you here already?” My best friend, So-young, whispered as she plopped down beside me. Her notebook was filled with neat, perfect handwriting—another reminder of how far behind I was in just a few days.

I ignored her comment and stared at the math section. Equations jumped and twisted before my eyes. Numbers that I usually could solve with ease now seemed alien.

“I heard your test score,” So-young said softly, leaning closer. “Are you okay?”

I clenched my jaw. “I’m fine,” I muttered, though my voice lacked conviction. “It’s just one test. No big deal.”

So-young’s eyes narrowed. “Min-ji, you never panic over a test. This is serious. And I think…” she hesitated, glancing toward the back of the classroom, “…I think Han Jiwon might be the only one who can actually help you.”

I froze.

Did she just say his name?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I hissed. “I don’t need his help.”

But the truth was, the thought lingered. The one who had solved that impossible equation yesterday… he could probably explain anything. And yet, my pride flared. I would never, ever let him think I needed him.

Classes passed in a blur of numbers and scribbled formulas. I avoided looking at Jiwon, pretending to focus on the teacher’s lectures, but I could feel his eyes on me. Sometimes, when I glanced up, he would smirk just slightly, like he knew exactly what I was thinking—and found it amusing.

I hated that.

By lunch, my stomach was twisting in knots. The cafeteria was crowded, the smell of fried rice and kimchi filling the air. I sat alone at the corner table, my tray barely touched, flipping through my notebook and trying to solve problems that made no sense.

“Mind if I sit?”

I looked up sharply. Of course. Han Jiwon.

He sat across from me, calm and casual, his tray already with him. He didn’t wait for permission; he just sat.

“I don’t need your help,” I said automatically.

He smiled faintly, undeterred. “Good. Because I didn’t come to help. Just thought you looked miserable, and misery is boring to watch.”

I glared at him. “I can handle misery on my own, thank you very much.”

He leaned back in his chair, observing me. “Right. Of course. That’s why your test scores are… well, dramatically lower than usual.”

I felt my cheeks burn. “Shut up!”

He laughed softly, the kind of laugh that made my stomach twist—not because it was charming, but because it worked on me every time.

That afternoon, after the last class, I found myself wandering into the empty classroom again. The desks were still covered in faint chalk dust, the sun streaming through the windows, warming the floor in golden streaks. I tried to focus on the equations in front of me, but the quiet was oppressive.

“Struggling again?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Jiwon stood in the doorway, leaning casually, hands in his pockets. His usual smirk was there, softening slightly as he watched me.

“I—don’t need your help,” I said, my voice trembling, though I tried to sound firm.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he walked over and grabbed a piece of chalk. Quietly, he started writing on the board, correcting my mistakes with smooth, precise strokes.

“See? This part is wrong,” he said gently. “Change the negative to positive here, and the solution will work.”

I stared at the board, shocked. It looked… simple. Obvious. How had I missed this?

He glanced at me, eyebrow slightly raised. “You were overthinking.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t overthinking, that I didn’t need anyone’s help. But the words stuck in my throat.

Instead, I crossed my arms, pretending not to care, and watched him finish. Then, without another word, he walked out.

I sat there, heart thundering in my chest, staring at the corrected equation. I hated him for being right. I hated him for looking calm. I hated him for making my cheeks heat up without even trying.

That evening, at home, my mother glanced at my notes and frowned.

“You’ve been trying too hard by yourself,” she said quietly. “Maybe you should… consider studying with someone. A peer, perhaps.”

I stiffened immediately. I knew exactly what she meant.

“No,” I said sharply, pushing my notes aside. “I can handle this myself.”

She gave me a look that I couldn’t argue with. “Just… think about it. You don’t have to struggle alone.”

Alone. The word echoed in my mind.

Alone. Or… with him?

No. Never.

I buried my thoughts, pushed the feelings down, and opened my notebook again. Chalk dust, numbers, failure, and pride.

Little did I know… the first step toward hatred turning into something else had already begun.

And that step was sitting right behind me in class every day, watching, smirking, waiting for me to falter.

The final bell of the day rang like a victory I didn’t feel. Everyone rushed out of the classroom, chatting, laughing, backpacks slung over shoulders. The sound of heels clicking against the polished floor faded until I was finally alone.

I sank into my chair, staring at the board, the numbers and formulas blurring into meaningless lines. I had tried over and over, and each attempt ended the same way—failure. My pride ached more than my brain.

A soft scrape behind me made me jump.

“You’re still here?”

I didn’t need to look. I knew that voice. Han Jiwon.

I froze, gripping my pencil like a lifeline. “I… I’m just finishing up.” My voice sounded smaller than I wanted.

He leaned against the doorway casually, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Finishing up, huh? Or… giving up quietly?”

I flinched at the mockery, but there was something in his tone—almost… neutral? Not cruel. Almost.

“I’m not giving up,” I snapped. “I just… need some quiet.”

He smirked, sliding into the classroom like he owned it. “Quiet, huh? Funny, because I’m not here to help you.”

I blinked. “Not here… to help me?”

“Exactly.” He took a step closer to the board, picking up a piece of chalk. “I just… noticed you were struggling. And, well…” He paused, as if weighing his words. “…I think you’ll figure it out faster if I show you one thing.”

I wanted to protest, to shout, to remind him that I didn’t need him. But the tension in my chest, the exhaustion from hours of failing, made me stay silent. Pride warred with necessity, and necessity was winning.

He turned to the board and wrote a clean, simple equation, his handwriting precise, almost artistic. “See this step here? Most people overcomplicate it. You just need to…” He explained patiently, each word deliberate, measured, and clear.

I found myself leaning in, unintentionally captivated. My fingers twitched, wanting to write it down, but also wanting to just… watch.

Minutes passed. I was so focused that I barely noticed him glancing at me occasionally. And then, finally, he turned.

“Try it now,” he said softly.

I hesitated, my pride screaming to refuse. But I picked up the chalk, copied what he had done, and… it worked. The solution made sense. For the first time in days, I felt that rush of clarity, the joy of solving something I thought was impossible.

I looked at him, a mixture of surprise and disbelief on my face.

He smirked, that familiar, infuriating smirk. “Not bad for someone who swore she didn’t need help.”

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “I… I didn’t—”

“Don’t say it,” he interrupted lightly, almost teasingly. “Pride intact. Got it.”

I glared at him, but my glare lacked its usual sting. Maybe because part of me… didn’t hate him as much as I claimed.

For the next hour, we worked together. He never mocked me, never sighed, never made me feel small. Every time I got stuck, he would calmly guide me through it, and every time I solved something, he would give a small nod of approval, just enough to make me feel… recognized.

It was maddening.

I hated that I secretly wanted his approval. I hated that I noticed the way his sleeve brushed against my arm when he leaned closer to the board. I hated that my heart raced a little faster every time our fingers brushed as we reached for the same piece of chalk.

And most of all… I hated that the wall I had built around my feelings, the one made of pride and anger, was beginning to crumble.

Finally, the sunlight outside began to fade, casting long golden streaks across the floor. The room grew quiet except for the soft scratching of chalk and the faint sound of our breathing.

“You’re improving,” he said quietly, almost like a comment to himself.

I froze. “Improving?” My voice sounded uncertain.

He glanced at me, dark eyes softening slightly. “Yeah. Faster than I expected.”

I didn’t know what to say. My pride wanted me to argue, to deny it, to insist that I was fine on my own. But a small, unfamiliar feeling bubbled in my chest. Satisfaction? Relief? Something dangerously close to… happiness?

He packed up his things without another word and walked to the door. I expected him to leave. I expected nothing.

But then, he paused and glanced back. “Don’t get used to me being here,” he said lightly. “I’m not your tutor.”

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t need him. That I hated him. That none of this mattered. But my throat went dry. I could only nod, my pride and confusion warring inside me.

As he disappeared down the hallway, I sat in the empty classroom, staring at the board. Chalk dust floated in the fading sunlight, shimmering like tiny stars. And for the first time in days, I smiled.

Not because he had helped me.

Not because I had solved the equation.

But because I realized… I wanted him here again.

I hated myself for it.

And yet… I knew this was just the beginning.