[...In Which I Discover Toothpaste Is Not a Fashion Statement...]
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On a mountain greener than jealousy, I was wrestling a bear.
Yes. An actual bear. Brown. Massive. Probably named something like Brutus or Punchmunch.
"Come on, you overgrown carpet!" I bellowed, gripping its arm—er, paw—like it owed me money.
We rolled over mossy rocks and tumbled down a slope that should've killed me three times over. My back slammed into a pine tree, bark crunching behind me, but I didn't let go.
The bear roared. I roared back. The sky above us cheered with golden sunlight. Eagles circled overhead, probably commentating in majestic eagle-ese.
This was it. Man versus beast. Wilderness versus wildness.
"Submit!" I shouted, applying a headlock that made absolutely no anatomical sense on a bear.
Birds gasped from their branches. The wind whooshed through the trees like it was giving me theme music. A distant waterfall began to clap.
Yes. The actual waterfall.
Because I wasn't just a man.
I was a legend.
My muscles glistened with effort and dramatic lighting. My beard fluttered in the wind like the flag of a kingdom that only believed in protein. My handmade spear—crafted from a pine branch and sheer testosterone—stood planted in the earth beside us.
I had no job. No school. No responsibilities. Just me, the wild, and the occasional philosophical brawl with Mother Nature.
Everything was perfect—
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.
The bear morphed.
Into a school bell.
The mountain cracked like cheap CGI. Trees folded into white noise. The waterfall pixelated into alarm static.
Then—
I hit the floor.
Of my bedroom.
Face-first.
In a puddle of my own drool.
"…dammit."
No more bear. No more beard. No more muscle-glow.
Just… patchy stubble, bed-hair that looked like I headbutted a blender, and a suspicious wet patch on my cheek.
I blinked at my ceiling fan, which spun above me like it was judging my life choices. The alarm clock beside it blinked 07:12 AM in angry red digits, screaming, "Rise and suffer, you overcooked daydreamer!"
I groaned into the floorboards. "Can I get five more minutes of wrestling grizzly bear nirvana, please?"
No answer.
Of course not. Life is cruel like that.
My name is Han Juno. I'm 17 years old. Professional daydreamer. Part-time ramen assassin. Full-time student at Guryong High School.
And yes—every morning, I dream of being that majestic mountain man.
Not for kicks.
But because it's literally the only place I'm not late for school.
"Juno!" came the voice from the kitchen, ripping through the air like a sonic boom. "You're late again!"
Ah yes. My mom.
Commander of the Kitchen. Destroyer of Naps. Her voice didn't need a mic. It had Bluetooth. It synced with my spine.
"Coming, coming!" I shouted back, peeling myself off the floor like wet rice paper.
I staggered into the bathroom, flicked on the light, and nearly passed out at my own reflection.
Hair: Chaotic mop auditioning for a shampoo horror movie.
Eyes: Redder than triple-spicy tteokbokki.
Vibe: Definitely not bear-wrestler. More like sleep-deprived side character who dies off-screen.
I splashed cold water on my face, gargled like a dying engine, and slapped both cheeks.
Slap!
Slap!
"Come on, you gremlin. School awaits."
Toothbrush? Check.
Will to live? Missing.
With mint foam still in my mouth, I stumbled downstairs like a half-formed zombie.
"Toast!" I barked mid-chew, as if I was entitled to breakfast just for surviving puberty.
"You're lucky I made some!" Mom replied, flinging a slice at me with Olympic-level speed.
It hit me.
In the face.
I caught it with my mouth, almost impressed by my own instinctive reflexes.
"Thanks," I mumbled, trying to chew and brush simultaneously. Mint and butter. Weird combo.
Outside, I heard it—the bicycle bell of destiny. My best friend, savior, and part-time maniac:
Chanwoo.
"GET ON, YOU DEGENERATE!" he yelled from the gate, ringing the bell like he was performing a seance.
"I'm brushing my teeth!" I shouted.
"BRUSH YOUR SOUL WHILE YOU'RE AT IT!"
I hopped on behind him like a reluctant backpack, clinging to his shoulders with foam dripping down my chin.
"Bro, you're leaking," he said, pedaling like we were in the Tour de France.
"Shut up and drive."
We flew down the street—me, still in oral hygiene mode, and him cackling like a lunatic. Pedestrians stared. Birds scattered. Somewhere, a dog barked in horror.
By the time we reached Guryong High, the gates were already halfway closed.
And guarding them—
Mr. Park.
Security Guard.
Ex-Marine.
Probably fought God once and won.
He squinted at us with eyes that could detect sin.
"Late again?" he grunted.
"Good morning, sir!" I chirped with toothpaste on my ear. "I come in peace. And with digestive biscuits."
He blinked.
He never laughed.
He never even blinked twice.
I bowed and slipped past, clinging to my last shred of dignity.
Inside, the chaos began immediately.
The hallways of Guryong High were a live-action drama directed by caffeine and hormones.
"Did you see what Hyeri wore today?!"
"I heard Yunho might confess behind the gym!"
"The vending machine ate my coin again—I'M GOING TO STARVE."
Typical.
As we reached Class 2-B, I paused outside the door.
"I'm not ready," I whispered.
Chanwoo slapped my back. "Too bad. Episode 2 of 'Your Life Is A Joke' starts now."
He shoved me.
I flailed.
And—
THUD.
I tripped over someone's bag and performed a very elegant faceplant in front of the entire class.
The room erupted.
Even the chairs were laughing.
"Welcome back, Juno," Mr. Kim muttered without looking up. "Glad to see gravity hasn't given up on you yet."
I groaned, rolled over, and attempted a bow that looked like a dying flamingo caught in a wind tunnel.
Laughter. Everywhere. Loud. Echoing. Eternal.
And then—
A giggle.
Soft. Melodic.
Her.
Do Hana.
Class president. National pianist. Giver of pens. Critic of souls.
The girl who once let me borrow a pen during midterms and now owns 93% of my heart.
She turned to me, her eyes like polished obsidian, sparkling with amusement.
"You've got toothpaste," she said calmly, "on your ear."
"…I do?"
She nodded. "And some in your hair. And… a bit on your collar."
I wanted to melt into the floor.
Instead, I muttered, "Thank you," and accepted the tissue she offered like it was a royal pardon.
Class began.
Math attacked first, stabbing me with variables.
English betrayed me with irregular verbs.
History dragged my soul into the abyss with endless dates and dead people.
I stared out the window, hand propping up my chin, mind drifting again.
To the bear.
The mountain.
The silence.
The version of me who was strong and wild and free.
The me who didn't get laughed at for face-planting.
Maybe one day, I'd find that place again.
Until then…
I have school, drama, and toothpaste stains on my dignity.