Ethan woke to the faint clatter of pans in the kitchen and the muted glow of early morning light creeping through the curtains. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, allowing himself a fleeting second of denial—pretending that he was back in California, waiting for his dad's voice to call him downstairs. But the cramped bedroom, the gray Korean skyline beyond the window, and the knot in his stomach reminded him that this was Hyosan, not Riverside. His mom had moved them here after the divorce so she could care for his aging grandparents. It still didn't feel like home.
He shoved the blankets aside and stretched, checking the time on his phone: 6:15 a.m. At least he wasn't running late for school. He'd only been attending Hyosan High for a couple of weeks, but each day had felt like a year—countless stares in the corridors, polite curiosity from some classmates, and total indifference from others. Being the new kid was never easy, but being the new kid from another country somehow made every glance, every whisper, sting more.
In the kitchen, Ethan's mom stood at the stove, wearing a frayed apron and a tired smile. She had just finished plating eggs and a small bowl of rice. The apartment was tiny, barely enough room for the two of them, with half-unpacked boxes along the walls. She beckoned him over to the folding table by the window.
"Morning," she said softly, sliding a plate toward him. "Sorry if the eggs are a little overdone. We ran out of cooking oil."
"It's fine, Mom. Don't worry." He forced a small grin and took a seat. Outside the window, he could see rows of identical apartment buildings. A few people were already on the street—some office workers in suits, a couple of elderly neighbors on a morning walk. This routine was starting to feel familiar, though not comforting. He missed his old life, his friends, his dad.
"How's school going?" his mom asked gently, settling into the seat opposite him. She tried to sound casual, but Ethan heard the note of concern in her voice.
"It's…okay," he managed. "Still getting used to the uniform and the classes in Korean."
She nodded, reaching across the table to give his hand a squeeze. "You'll do fine. I know this is a big change, but things will get better." The shadows under her eyes betrayed her own stress. Between working a new job in Hyosan and caring for her parents, she had enough on her plate without worrying about Ethan's social life.
He wolfed down his eggs, thanked his mom, and rinsed the plate in the sink. Back in his bedroom, he wriggled into his crisp Hyosan High blazer and trousers, then clipped on the tie—bland and scratchy, but part of the dress code. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he couldn't help noticing his fairer skin, the sharper angle of his jaw, and the brownish tinge to his hair that set him apart from other Korean students. With a sigh, he grabbed his backpack.
"Bye, Mom!" he called, stepping into the hallway. She returned his wave with a tired smile. Moments later, the apartment door closed behind him.
A brisk chill greeted him outside, despite the cloud-filtered sun. The sidewalks buzzed with life: shop owners rolling up metal shutters, older women touting fresh vegetables, and uniform-clad teenagers headed to various schools. Hyosan High was about fifteen minutes away on foot.
As he walked, a group of local students passed him, chatting in rapid-fire Korean. One girl glanced over, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but said nothing. Ethan tugged his bag's strap, wishing he could fade into the background. In California, he'd been just another kid. Here, he felt like every move he made was under scrutiny.
Eventually, the wide gate of Hyosan High came into view. Students poured in from different directions, some riding bikes, others hopping off buses. Banners in Korean advertised a festival in a few weeks' time, promising a school play, musical performances, and food stalls. He paused, letting a few students pass before heading into the courtyard. The four-story building stood in a rectangular shape around an open center. Posters and announcements plastered the notice board by the main entrance.
He let out a breath and stepped inside. Another day, he told himself, Just another day of surviving classes.
Ethan's homeroom was 2-5, located on the second floor. As he entered, a wave of chatter washed over him: classmates exchanging gossip, yawning, flipping through notes. At the front, Ms. Park sorted through a clipboard. She was a young, kindly teacher who always greeted Ethan with a warm smile. He often wondered if she felt bad for him, being the new kid and all.
He slipped behind his desk, nodding briefly at a couple of classmates who looked his way. He recognized many faces: Nam-ra, the stoic class president seated by the window with headphones in; Cheong-san, a wiry boy talking animatedly to another classmate while sneaking glances at On-jo; On-jo herself, rummaging through her bag and smiling at something Cheong-san said; Nayeon, immaculate makeup and poised posture, scrolling on her phone with an air of disinterest; and Su-hyeok, tall and athletic, leaning against the wall, half-listening to the morning announcements.
Ms. Park called the class to attention, reading out the day's notices: a reminder to keep uniforms neat, warnings about certain stairwells under maintenance, upcoming quizzes. She mentioned a few clubs recruiting members for the festival. While she spoke, Ethan jotted notes, missing about one word in every five but generally understanding. He'd grown used to partial comprehension. When Ms. Park finished, the class buzzed again, packing up for first period. As Ethan slid his notebook into his bag As Ms. Park dismissed them for first period, Ethan slid his notebook into his bag with a quiet sigh. Around him, the room buzzed with the familiar rustle of papers and the rise of chatter, but he still felt like a stranger witnessing someone else's routine. He caught a glimpse of On-jo laughing at something Cheong-san whispered and wondered if he'd ever feel that relaxed here. Securing his bag over his shoulder, Ethan steeled himself for the day ahead. This is my life now, he reminded himself. One class at a time, one day at a time. With that thought, he stepped into the bustling corridor, unaware that the real test of belonging—and survival—was only just beginning. By the time the lesson ended, his mind had wandered to lunch. This would be his first time sitting with On-jo and Cheong-san, maybe meeting their other friends. It was a small milestone, but in a life that felt uprooted, even small steps could feel significant.