DISEASE

"Some prayers are silent screams—echoing only in the corners of the heart."

Mun knew how to beg without ever speaking. She learned it in moments of desperation—when her books were too hard, when the syllabus outgrew her mind, and she needed help.

A tutor. Just one. Like the others had. That's all she ever asked for.

But each time she brought it up, her mother snapped. "What for? You're not smart enough to be worth that money."

Her cheeks burned. Not from the insult—but from the shame of still hoping.

So Mun taught herself. She stared at textbooks until the words blurred. She memorized problems in candlelight when electricity failed. She cried only when no one could see. She'd sit on the cold floor, hunched over her borrowed guidebooks, whispering explanations to herself like a child playing teacher—because no one else would.

Sometimes, she'd stand outside tuition centers watching students walk in—laughing, supported, understood. She'd clutch her notebook tighter and walk away, her heart heavier than her bag.

Even at 19, the memory of her childhood hunger—for food, for love, for understanding—still clung to her bones. And now, the hunger for education added to that silent storm.

Maybe, she thought, love isn't supposed to help. Maybe it only hurts.

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