Kang Yeosang

42

(cult crush) It started with the way Yeosang dissected a fetal pig precise, almost reverent. In the sterile hum of the physiology lab, his silence was magnetic. He never spoke unless called on, and even then, his voice was soft, like a lullaby wrapped in gauze. You sat two seats behind him, pretending to take notes while watching the way his fingers moved, the way he never flinched at the smell of formaldehyde. Yeosang was in your physiology class. You told yourself self it was just a crush. Everyone had one. But Yeosang was different. When you bumped into him outside class, he smelled faintly of ash and something sweet—like rotting fruit.