My Mister
Lee Ji-an
How a Girl Who Wanted to Disappear Chose to
Stay
She never smiled. Not because she couldn’t—but because she had forgotten how.
Lee Ji-an moved through the world like a shadow—sharp, quiet, fading into walls. She didn’t want to be noticed. In her world, being seen meant being hurt. Speaking meant being exposed. Wanting meant being disappointed.
From a young age, she had to survive—not metaphorically, but literally. She was a child raising a grandmother, shouldering debts that weren’t hers. Her existence was shaped by bills, bruises, and a city that never saw her.
She worked to repay things she never chose. She endured violence as routine. Her body remained tense—like a wire stretched too thin. Yet she stood. Not out of strength, but because she had no other choice.
Ji-an perfected the art of disappearing in plain sight. Present, but ghost-like. Her silence wasn’t emptiness. It was armor. Her quiet was resistance.
She never asked for help. She never looked up. Even joy felt suspicious—a trap she couldn’t afford to fall for. There were nights she sat in darkness, not out of poetic solitude, but because she couldn’t afford electricity. And still, she wrote. Not to be read, but to keep her hands from trembling. Not to dream, but to survive.
Then came Park Dong-hoon. Not heroic. Not charming. Just... present.
He saw her. Not with pity—but recognition. As if her brokenness resembled his own. He didn’t try to fix her. He didn’t demand she speak. He just stayed close to her pain—quietly, without judgment.
That was new. A presence that didn’t press. A kindness that didn’t cost her anything. A gaze that didn’t turn away.
And that began to shift something inside her. Not a grand change. Just a quiet uncoiling—like dawn gently convincing night to leave.
At first, she suspected him. Why would anyone offer care without asking for something back? She had never known kindness that didn’t come with a price. But time passed. And he remained. No expectations. No ultimatums. And she began to believe—maybe she didn’t need to vanish to be safe.
There’s a moment. Barely lit. She whispers, “I think I want to live.” It’s not loud. But it’s everything.
Because it’s the first time she lets herself want something. The first time she admits she deserves to exist.
She doesn’t become joyful overnight. This isn’t that kind of story. She still flinches. Still hides. But now, she moves forward. Not as someone escaping, but beginning.
She cooks a meal. She answers a phone call. She walks with her head just slightly higher.
Survival doesn’t always look heroic. Sometimes it looks like folding laundry. Or sitting down. Or not deleting a message.
There were days she stared at the mirror, trying to recognize her own eyes. Days when silence felt heavier than violence. Nights when a stranger’s touch left her untouched, but shattered nonetheless. Her past never stopped chasing her. But now, she’s learning to run toward something instead of just away.
Ji-an stays. She chooses to stay. And in staying, she claims back a life that was once denied to her.
She begins to write again. This time not in desperation, but in defiance. Each word is a small rebellion, each sentence a quiet declaration: I am still here.
She returns to places she used to avoid—a park bench, a bus stop, a corner of the market—and reclaims them. Not all at once, but one step at a time. She learns to sit without flinching. To breathe without looking over her shoulder.
She begins to believe in things that once felt dangerous: birthdays, books, the warmth of someone calling her name with no demand attached.
There is no guarantee of a happy ending. She knows this. But now, there is the possibility of one. And sometimes, possibility is enough to keep living.
Ji-an starts building small rituals of safety—a morning tea, a nightly journal, a pair of shoes she doesn’t run in. She redefines comfort. She reclaims gentleness.
And as she grows, she also gives. A helping hand to another struggling girl. A warm meal to someone who once reminded her of herself. She no longer sees herself as the only one in pain—but as someone who can transform pain.
There are still moments when fear visits her. In the quiet before sleep, in the echo of a harsh word overheard, in the flicker of a memory that arrives uninvited. But now, she no longer lets those moments define her. She meets them with breath, with pause, with the gentle strength she is still learning to trust.
She begins to speak more. Not always loudly, not always easily—but with intention. Her voice, once buried under years of silence, now makes space in the world. She tells her story, piece by piece, to herself first. And then to others who need to hear that survival is not only possible, but powerful.
Ji-an learns to forgive herself. For the nights she gave up. For the days she couldn’t protect the one person she loved most. She learns that healing is not erasure, but integration—that her scars don’t vanish, but soften.
She begins to dream. Cautiously, then with clarity. Of a life beyond debt. Of a job where she is not invisible. Of a home with windows that let light in. Of a morning where waking up doesn’t feel like bracing for impact.
The world doesn’t transform around her. It is still hard. Still unjust. But she has transformed. And in that shift, even the harshest city corners begin to soften.
A small child smiles at her on a bus. A neighbor nods at her across the hallway. These gestures, once terrifying, now begin to feel like invitations. Not to trust blindly—but to exist without flinching.
Her life is still quiet. But now, it is full. And when she looks in the mirror, she no longer sees someone waiting to disappear. She sees a woman choosing to remain.
