It was my third day at school, and I was just going through the motions. I didn't understand what the teachers were saying, and I could barely keep up with what was happening around me. Most of the kids didn't pay much attention to me, and honestly, I didn't blame them. I was the new kid who couldn't even speak their language.
That day, as I sat alone during break, a boy walked up to me. He smiled and said something I didn't catch at first, but then I realized—it was in my language. I couldn't believe it. Someone here spoke the same words as me!
"Hi," he said again, this time clearer.
I blinked, a little surprised. "Hi."
We stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say next. Finally, I asked, "What's your name?"
"Shin," he answered with a grin. "Call me Shin. What about you?"
"I'm Doon."
From that moment, it felt like something clicked. We started talking, cautiously at first, but soon the words flowed easily. We weren't just two kids at a new school—we were two kids in the same situation. We had both come to South Korea as refugees, both escaping the chaos of war. Shin didn't know all the details about why his family had to leave, and neither did I, but it didn't matter. We understood each other in a way no one else could.
Shin quickly became like a brother to me—not by blood, but in every way that counted. He made me feel less alone, like I finally had someone by my side in this strange, unfamiliar place.
One afternoon, as we sat under the shade of a tree in the schoolyard, I turned to him and said, "We should learn how to speak Korean. It'll be fun."
He thought about it for a second and then nodded. "Yeah, let's do it. We can help each other."
From that day on, we made a pact. Every day, we'd try to pick up new words and phrases. It was slow at first—awkward, full of mistakes—but with Shin by my side, it didn't feel so overwhelming.
For the first time since arriving in South Korea, I felt a spark of hope. With Shin as my friend, I knew I wouldn't have to face this new world alone.