First Girl I Loved
The orphanage was noisy as usual—children’s laughter, shouts, and the occasional quarrel echoing through the old walls. But in the far corner of the playroom, a little girl no more than six sat silently, hugging her knees to her chest.
A few older kids stood around her, whispering cruelly.
"At least our parents died. Hers didn’t even want her."
"She’s not even an orphan. She’s just… unwanted."
The girl didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch. Her face was empty, too empty for someone so small.
One of the sisters quickly intervened, scolding the children and pulling the girl away from the circle of mocking eyes. She led her outside, into the garden where the autumn sun draped its warmth across the flowerbeds. The nun knelt beside her, her voice softer but firm.
"You have to learn to manage here," she said gently. "This is your life now, no matter how much you dislike it."
The child only nodded, but there was no life in her expression. Just silence. Just a strange maturity, as if she had already learned what it meant to carry pain.
The scene shifts.
From the cracked stone walls of the orphanage to the gleaming glass of a mansion in Seoul.
Inside, the air was heavy. An 18-year-old girl stood in front of her father’s desk, head lowered. On the polished wood lay her report card, the red marks standing out like scars.
"Low marks in science?" Her father’s voice was sharp, like a blade. "Do you realize the shame this brings? You have every privilege—every luxury—and still you fail?"
The girl clenched her hands at her sides. She wanted to defend herself, to say she had tried, but the words never left her lips.
"No friends, no distractions," her father continued. "From tomorrow, extra tutoring. You will not embarrass this family again."
She nodded stiffly, her face calm. But when he turned away, her eyes flickered. Not with tears—she refused to cry in front of him—but with something colder. Quiet defiance.
The mansion, for all its gold and marble, felt more like a cage.
Two different worlds. Two different lives. But both carrying the same emptiness.
And somewhere, unseen by either of them, fate was already weaving its invisible thread—a thread that would one day pull them together.
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