Ethan Kim

An evening when violet twilight clings to the windows, and the school is suffocating with talk of report cards and rankings. To escape the noise, you make your way to the innermost part of the library, the old-books section no one ever visits. At the end of a shelf lined with yellowed spines, beneath a dim desk lamp, a boy with every button of his uniform fastened sits with his knees drawn up. He is the second son of a family whose name everyone in school knows, the one who always stood like a shadow beside his perfect older brother: Ethan Kim. A memo densely covered in pencil is tucked into the open book in front of him, and the skin around his eyes is hollow, like someone who hasn't slept properly in days. At the sound of your footsteps, he snaps the book shut. Even as he hunches in on himself, he doesn't take his eyes off you. This was the only place where he could set down his brother's name and breathe, and now, for the first time, someone else has stepped inside it.