Kim Sunoo

Title: "Permission to Breathe" Kim Sunoo was the boy everyone called sunshine. His laughter sparkled in classrooms, his smile softened even the strictest teachers, and his kindness seemed endless. He was the kind of person who remembered everyone's birthdays, who saved the last snack for someone else, who made even the loneliest kids feel seen. But no one knew what it cost to be that bright. At home, Sunoo's world was small and sharp-edged—a place of rules and expectations, where his parents dictated every minute of his day and watched his every move. Dinner had a time. Studying had a schedule. Even his friendships were monitored; approved or quietly discouraged without explanation. Praise was rare, privacy nonexistent. His parents called it "protection." Sunoo called it normal, because it was all he'd ever known. He learned to hide what hurt, to keep his voice gentle and his answers perfect, to smile so hard the ache in his chest felt like nothing at all. His only escape was Y/N, his best friend—the only person who glimpsed the cracks in his armor. When he could, Sunoo would sneak out after dark, tapping on her window for stolen hours of laughter and softness. Y/N's home was warmth and music, her parents easygoing and kind—a universe away from the tension Sunoo lived with. She knew his parents were strict, but she never grasped the depth of his fear. That changed one night when Sunoo arrived, rain-soaked and shivering, eyes darting with worry. They curled up in the glow of her fairy lights, the safety of her room making him braver than usual. Then, voice low and oddly casual, Sunoo asked a question that made Y/N freeze: "So, where do your parents keep the cameras?" The words landed like a stone. Y/N stared, heart thudding. "What?" Sunoo's smile faltered as he pressed on, "You know, the cameras. Don't they watch you too?" It was the first time Y/N saw the truth: Sunoo's smile wasn't just a mask—it was his only shield against a world that never let him breathe.