#Calculate Pi Online

[a-tools]

Pi Calculator is designed to calculate the value of Pi (π) to a specified number of decimal places. Simply enter the number of start decimal places and the number of digits you need, and it will generate the value of Pi (π) instantly.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

teachers pet

professor!hwang inho x female reader

cw: daddy issues, descriptions of trauma, bullying, age gap, body shaming, reader is said to be 19

(no games au, most likely inho is kinda out of character, slow burn)

requests?:yes!

word count: 14.7k

It wasn’t like you were beaten senseless, starved, or subjected to unspeakable horrors. No, nothing so extreme. Just the occasional slap—one you always deserved, of course. You should have washed the dishes. You should have studied harder. A bad grade, a forgotten chore—each mistake met with a swift hand, a lesson in discipline, nothing more. That wasn’t abuse. That was love.

Daddy dearest only wanted the best for you, wanted you to be diligent, intelligent, pure. That’s why boys were off-limits. And when you defied him? When you dared to seek affection elsewhere? The punishment was swift—a slap across the face, the sting lingering long after the moment passed. The door to your room vanished soon after, stripped away as if privacy itself was a privilege you had yet to earn.

"I do this because I love you, my sweet Y/N," he murmured, brushing away the tears that spilled from your burning-red cheek. His touch, almost tender. His gaze, almost affectionate. A man of contradictions—cruelty and kindness woven together so seamlessly that even you couldn’t untangle them. Perhaps he did love you, in his own twisted way. Perhaps he believed his methods were justified.

And you? You were obsessed. Obsessed with earning his approval, his validation—his rare and conditional love. It became your full-time job. During "work hours," you performed flawlessly: straight A’s, disciplined behavior, a carefully curated indifference toward romance. But when the shift ended? When the weight of his expectations momentarily lifted? You slipped out through your window, into the night, into a world that didn’t demand perfection. You went on dates, you kissed boys who whispered the sweet words you ached to hear. And every time, you let yourself believe in them. And every time, you were left with nothing but heartbreak.

◇

You applied to countless colleges, but in the end, Daddy dearest made the choice for you—only the finest institutions, of course. After all, you had excelled in your final exams, just as he had demanded. For the past year, he had ruled over you with an iron fist, his words sharp and unforgiving. Every evening, he loomed over your desk as you studied, reminding you—no, drilling into you—that without a prestigious degree, you would become nothing. A failure. A stupid, useless whore, just like your mother.

And he had been right about Mom, hadn’t he? She had abandoned you for some pathetic man she met online, never once looking back. Sure, she had written letters—fragile attempts at connection—but they never reached you. The moment he spotted them in the mailbox, his lips curled into something resembling a smile as he casually crumpled the paper, discarding it like trash.

"She's a drug addict, probably living in some crackhouse now, my little Y/N," he had said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She probably just wants to beg you for money. Let's not waste time on her idiotic mail." His large hand patted your head, the gesture almost affectionate.

"But—" you had started, your voice small, uncertain.

He silenced you with a single glance. "See? That’s what happens when you leave me. When you stop listening. Look at what she became. You don’t want to end up like her, do you?"

You forced a small, obedient smile, nodding. Trying to believe him. Wanting to believe him. Because the alternative—the thought that your mother had truly wanted to reach you, that she had never stopped thinking about you—was too painful to bear.

His gaze flickered down, scanning your figure with the same calculating eyes he used when assessing your report cards.

"You’ve gained weight," he remarked, almost offhandedly, but his voice carried a quiet edge, a thinly veiled disgust. "You wouldn’t want to be a fat pig at college, would you? But I suppose with your mother’s genetics, it’s inevitable."

His expression twisted into something unreadable. Almost concern—but not quite. No, that wasn’t concern. It was something colder. A quiet, meticulous chipping away at whatever confidence you had managed to salvage. Because even after acing your exams, after sacrificing sleep, after giving every ounce of yourself to meet his impossible expectations, you still weren’t enough. You never would be.

The approval he had granted you, fleeting and conditional, had already evaporated, replaced by yet another flaw for him to carve into. Another piece of you to dismantle.

But still, you craved it. His validation. His love—if you could even call it that. It was a hunger that never dulled.

"I'll lose weight, Daddy," you whispered, offering him a faint, fragile smile. Hoping, just this once, it would be enough.

◇

You got in. The best university in the entire country—a crown jewel of academia. The campus was breathtaking, almost unreal, like it belonged in a movie. Ivy-covered buildings, sun-drenched courtyards, students who were not only brilliant but effortlessly beautiful. Professors whose names echoed in academic journals, whose brilliance seemed to radiate from their very presence. And the parties—wild, glittering affairs that spilled into the early hours, promising release, rebellion, and belonging.

But you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. An impostor wearing someone else’s skin. As if your acceptance had been a clerical error, a slip in the system. Like you didn’t belong here, hadn’t truly earned your place, even though you had bled for those grades, sacrificed every piece of yourself to get in. The thought haunted you: This place is too good for me.

You just wanted to be liked. Wanted people to smile when you entered the room, to feel wanted, to matter. Even if it meant whittling yourself down to a version of you that didn’t feel like you at all. Your preferences, your personality, your voice—they blurred and shifted, rearranged themselves depending on who was watching. You became fluid, formless. A mirror reflecting whatever the people around you wanted to see.

So you danced to music that grated your nerves. Laughed at jokes that didn’t make sense to you. Drank things that tasted like poison. None of it mattered—what mattered was the approval, the acceptance, the feeling of finally being enough.

Your existence was almost entirely performative. You wore masks like second skin—smiling when you wanted to scream, nodding when you wanted to vanish. It was muscle memory by now, born from years of rehearsing the role of the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect nothing.

But there was one place, one hour in your carefully curated schedule, where something real slipped through the cracks. Literature class.

It wasn’t just a class—it was a sanctuary. A place where your voice, long silenced by your father’s rigid expectations, finally had room to breathe. Where your thoughts weren’t graded against how obedient or pure or presentable they were, but by how honest, how insightful, how yours they felt. You wrote review essays that dug into the marrow of the texts, not because you were supposed to—but because, for once, you wanted to say something. You wrote short stories with a voice you didn’t even know you had, and in those pages, you found slivers of the self you’d buried under years of silence and compliance.

And then there was Professor Hwang.

Stern. Disciplined. Controlled. He ran the classroom like a ship’s deck—there was no room for mediocrity, no tolerance for laziness, no softened edges. His feedback was brutal in its honesty, but fair. He didn’t flatter. He didn’t fawn. And that only made you want his praise more.

At first, it was purely academic. But the need for his approval began to feel familiar—uncomfortably so. Not like the way you sought to be liked at parties, or the way you’d contort yourself to be desired. No, this was deeper. Older.

You wanted him to see you. Not as a girl. Not even as a student. But as someone worthy. Someone with a mind that mattered. Someone who could impress him.

Every time he underlined a sentence and scribbled a restrained “good insight,” your heart ached in a way you knew too well. The way it did when your father used to glance at your report card, nod stiffly, and mutter, “Finally doing something right.” You told yourself this was different—but it wasn’t. Not entirely.

Because you weren’t just craving academic validation. You were chasing the ghost of a father who taught you love had to be earned. That you were never enough until he said so. And now, you were chasing that same impossible feeling—through red ink and curt nods, through the quiet dignity of a man who would never give affection freely, but might just give you respect if you proved yourself enough times.

“I just want him to like my writing,” you told yourself. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just about the writing. It was about being seen. It was about being good enough for someone.

And that hunger—it never really left.

◇

“Good job, as per usual.”

Professor Hwang handed you your graded essay without so much as a glance. His voice was even, expression unreadable, his hand steady as he moved down the row. But the moment the paper touched your desk—his handwriting scrawled across the top in red ink, those simple words—Good job—your chest swelled with something dangerously close to euphoria.

You felt weightless. Dizzy. High. As if you'd inhaled something sweet and rare. That brief moment—barely two seconds of acknowledgment—meant more than it should have. He hadn’t even looked at you, hadn’t smiled, hadn’t done anything, really. But it didn’t matter. You were seen. Not for your face, not for your social status, not for how well you performed obedience—but for your mind.

And that meant everything.

You watched him move down the row, his long strides measured and composed, his sharp profile calm with quiet confidence. He carried himself with purpose, intellect radiating from every movement, and you found yourself unable to look away. You studied the furrow between his brows, the set of his jaw, the way he paused just briefly between students—efficient, no wasted energy. A man who didn’t indulge in softness, who didn’t offer approval freely.

Which made it all the more intoxicating when he gave it to you.

You were so deep in it—so completely absorbed in watching him—that you barely registered your friend’s voice beside you.

“Y/N?” she snapped her fingers in front of your face. “Hello? Gosh, I’m talking to you.”

You blinked, shaken out of your haze, and turned to her. She was pouting, her essay crumpled in her manicured hand. “I didn’t pass again. This is some fucking bullshit.”

You gave her a soft, practiced smile, slipping easily back into your usual role. The supportive friend. The fixer.

“It’ll be alright,” you said gently. “We’ve got another essay due Tuesday, and I’m sure you’ll do great on that one.”

She tilted her head, eyes suddenly wide and sweet with that familiar, calculated look. “Can you help me?”

There it was again—that smile. The one that had you doing most of her coursework in exchange for proximity to her world. She was popular, magnetic. Everyone wanted to be around her, to orbit her light. And because you were her right hand, you were seen, known, accepted. Not fully. Not truly. But enough.

It was a trade—you offered your intellect, your time, your energy, and in return, you got a borrowed kind of status. People greeted you in hallways. You were invited to parties. You were liked.

And that mattered. Maybe too much.

“Of course,” you said, smiling again. Always smiling.

You handed her your paper. You’d help her. You always did. Because performing was second nature now—whether for a professor’s approval or a friend’s affection. And as long as someone, anyone, kept saying “good job,” you could keep pretending it was enough.

◇

“Hey, Y/N.”

Seojin barely glanced up as she spoke, her attention fixed on the small compact mirror she held in one hand, the other delicately gliding lip gloss across her already perfectly painted lips.

You walked over to the library table she had claimed as her personal throne, offering a soft, practiced smile as you adjusted the strap of your bag. “Hi, Seojin.”

Sliding into the seat across from her, you cleared your throat, voice light but tentative. “So... you said you needed help writing the essay? Which book did you pick?”

She didn’t look up. She was too busy smacking her lips, checking the shine. “I didn’t really pick one yet,” she muttered. Then, a beat later, “Oh! Maybe we could do it on... ugh, I don’t know... Harry Potter?”

You blinked. “The prompt is about character transformations, sure, but... it had to be a book published in the 1950s,” you said, offering a small, polite laugh. You hated correcting her.

Seojin groaned dramatically, finally tossing the mirror into her designer tote. “Gosh, does he always have to give us such specific criteria? Like, who does he think he is?” she grumbled, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, looking as if she were personally offended by academia itself.

You gave her a small smile, trying to keep the edge of exasperation from showing. “Maybe Lolita could work? It was published in ’55, and the psychological complexity is—”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, that love story!”

You flinched, your stomach knotting. “It’s... not a love story,” you corrected gently, voice quieter now. “Even Nabokov said it’s a psychological horror, not a romance.”

“Whatever,” she interrupted flatly, already bored of the conversation. “How long do you think it’ll take you to write it?”

You hesitated. “I was thinking... maybe we could write it together? Mr. Hwang’s super analytical, not like other professors. He’ll know if it’s not your voice.” Your words were careful, deliberate. You were trying to plant the seed of effort, of ownership, without sounding accusatory.

Finally, Seojin looked at you. Her wide, doll-like eyes softened into something that mimicked vulnerability. “Y/N,” she said, dragging out your name like a plea, “please? Just this once. You’re such a good friend, okay?” Her voice was syrupy, sweet, her expression dipped in practiced desperation.

You looked at her—really looked—and for a moment, you felt the sting of being used. Of being convenient. But the weight of her words settled like a chain around your neck. Good friend. That’s what you were supposed to be, right? Helpful. Reliable. Quiet.

Just like you were with your father.

You felt yourself folding again, like paper.

“Fine,” you said softly, your smile mechanical.

Because being needed—even for the wrong reasons—still felt better than not being seen at all.

◇

Mr. Hwang moved down the aisle with his usual calm precision, a stack of graded essays in hand. He didn’t pause, didn’t even look at you when he placed the crisp paper onto your desk—your name written neatly in the corner, an A circled in bold red ink near the top.

Your heart fluttered with quiet pride, your fingers brushing over the grade like it might vanish. But the warmth of that triumph evaporated the second you glanced at Seojin.

Her eyes sparkled, lips already curled into a grin as she flipped her essay over, no doubt expecting praise. The smile vanished.

F.

Her whole face changed—her brow twitched ever so slightly, lips pressing into a hard, thin line. She stared at the grade as if it were a personal betrayal, her jaw locked tight.

Your stomach dropped.

“You two,” Mr. Hwang’s voice rang out flatly, cool and commanding, “stay after class.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just moved on, handing back the rest of the essays like nothing happened.

Seojin didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. But the air around her turned to ice. She didn’t look at you until the moment Mr. Hwang passed her by. And when she did, it was with fury beneath a thin mask of calm. Her anger simmered just beneath her flawlessly applied makeup, rage flickering behind her big, empty lashes.

“You fucking bitch,” she hissed, low and venomous. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted me to fail, wrote some pretentious bullshit so I’d get embarrassed. I should’ve known you were fucking useless.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“No—Seojin—I didn’t—I swear I tried my best,” you whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush. Your voice cracked, small and shaky. Panic bloomed in your chest like fire. You felt like a little girl again, fumbling for a defense while someone older and louder ripped the ground from beneath your feet.

She scoffed. Loud enough to draw a glance from the next table over. “Shut your traitor ass up. You’re done for here.”

You swallowed hard, your body stiff with shame. The rest of the class blurred, every tick of the clock louder than Mr. Hwang’s lecture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t breathe. Your fingers clenched and unclenched in your lap. Every shift of Seojin beside you felt like a warning. You barely blinked, afraid that if you did, the walls would close in.

◇

After class, the door shut quietly behind the last student.

“So, what’s wrong with my essay?” Seojin demanded, arms crossed, her voice like a whip crack.

Mr. Hwang stood near his desk, his posture calm, precise. He clasped his hands behind his back, his tailored suit perfectly in place, his gaze cold.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to the paper in his hand and read aloud, voice smooth and precise:

‘Her transformation is not a blossoming, but a decay—Lolita, twisted into a caricature of innocence, becomes both victim and symbol, and yet never loses the ghost of the child she was forced to leave behind.’

“A terrific essay,” he added, tone still even. “Truly, one of the best I’ve read in years.”

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands twisting in the hem of your sweater. The compliment sent a flicker of warmth through you—but it was poisoned by the context.

“So what’s the problem, huh?” Seojin snapped, her jaw tense, arms tightening across her chest.

“The problem, Miss Kang,” he said coolly, “is that this isn’t your work.”

“Yes it is!” she spat, stepping forward, her posture tense like a coil. “Y/N, say it. Admit that it’s mine!”

Her eyes twitched with desperation, her voice cracking.

You looked at her, then at Mr. Hwang, then down at the floor. Something inside you broke a little.

“...It’s hers,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Mr. Hwang said nothing at first. He only nodded slightly. “Very well,” he murmured, stepping closer to the desk. “Then, Miss Kang, since it’s yours—you’ll have no trouble defining the word ‘ephemerality,’ which you used with such elegance in your second paragraph.”

The room went silent.

Her smile faltered. Her eye twitched again. She said nothing.

“This tells me everything I need to know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Please leave. I will raise the issue with the academic board.”

Seojin turned on you, her fury now untethered. “This is your fault!” she seethed, jabbing her finger into your shoulder. You flinched, tension locking up every part of your body. Her perfectly sculpted expression was twisted with pure loathing.

She stormed out, designer bag swinging angrily at her side.

You took a step to follow, your legs numb.

“Not you, Miss L/N,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice cutting clean through your daze. “I’d like a word.”

Your blood ran cold. For a moment you just stood in silence, before silently walking closer to the professor.

"I'm very disappointed, Miss L/N."

His voice was steady, measured—devoid of anger, but somehow that made it worse. His expression remained unreadable, composed like always. But to you, it felt like a thousand silent reprimands.

"From a bright mind which I presumed yours to be," he continued, calmly folding his arms behind his back, "I expected wiser actions."

You felt something sink deep inside you. That one word—disappointed—struck harder than any insult, any grade, any punishment ever could. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, gripping the hem of your sleeve.

You had disappointed him.

The man whose rare nods and quiet praise had meant more to you than any applause. The only adult who made you feel seen, not as a doll molded by expectation, but as someone capable.

“I-I apologize,” you stammered, barely above a whisper, eyes fixed on the floor. You couldn’t look him in the eyes. You didn’t deserve to.

“I just wanted to help her,” you added, almost defensively, though your voice cracked by the end of it.

One of his eyebrows lifted subtly. “You should think more of helping yourself,” he said, voice unflinching. “Your little antic nearly landed you on the path to academic expulsion.”

You flinched at the word expulsion. Your heart thudded dully in your chest.

“I know,” you said quickly. “I’m sorry. I—I did wrong.” Then, with a nervous bow of your head, “Thank you for… appreciating my essays.” You turned, already walking toward the door. His presence made you feel too exposed. Too small. And he was always so stern—so no-nonsense—that it seemed futile to even ask for mercy.

But his voice stopped you cold.

“Not so quick.”

You turned around, startled, clutching your bag tighter. He was watching you now, one brow slightly raised. “Aren’t you going to at least try to fight for your deserved spot here?”

You blinked, stunned.

Why would you?

You’d failed him. Let your “friend” down—if Seojin could even be called that. And socially? You were already dead. Word would spread. You could see the whispers starting, the side-eyes, the snickering in class. And then—your father. If he found out… no, when he found out… you’d be as good as buried.

So you laughed. Just a soft, cracked sound. Self-deprecating. Hollow. “I’m done for anyway, Professor.”

He didn’t return your smile.

“Not necessarily,” he said, still measured, still calm—but something in his voice carried weight. Possibility. A thread of hope, tightly wound in control. “I haven’t brought the matter to the academic board. Not yet.”

You blinked. “…You haven’t?”

“No,” he said simply. “Because there’s one way you can redeem yourself.”

Your eyes widened slightly. A flicker of something returned to your posture—hope, fear, disbelief.

“H-how?”

“There will be a literature and writing competition hosted by the university and its partners,” he explained, his tone firm but not unkind. “A prestigious event. You’ll be given a prompt and expected to craft a sophisticated essay or analysis on the spot, drawing from a selection of fifteen pre-assigned texts. The book will be chosen for you at random. It’s intense. Demanding. Only a handful of students qualify.”

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.

“I believe,” he said, pausing deliberately, “you’re the best student I can sign up for it. And the only one I’m willing to personally mentor through the preparation process.”

Your heart pounded.

He believed in you. After all this. After you’d fumbled, compromised yourself—he still saw something worth salvaging.

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away.

You’d chased your father’s validation for years like a lost child wandering an empty hallway. But this—this was different. Mr. Hwang’s validation didn’t come with conditions. It wasn’t twisted with cruelty or control. It was offered in the form of challenge, belief, and discipline.

And suddenly, you wanted nothing more than to prove him right.

“…I’ll do it,” you said softly, a new resolve weaving into your voice. “I won’t let you down.”

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, unreadable. Then he nodded, once.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll send you the reading list tonight. We begin Monday.”

◇

You walked through campus with a small, flickering smile tugging at your lips. The trees swayed gently under the weight of golden afternoon light, and for once, the breeze didn’t feel cold. Your thoughts danced around books and prompts, essay structures and literary symbolism. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you had a direction—like you had something to prove that wasn't rooted in desperation but in purpose.

You were going to make Mr. Hwang proud. You were going to redeem yourself.

And thankfully, when you returned to your dorm, you wouldn’t have to see Seojin’s smug face or anyone else from that so-called friend group—a group that only ever loved you in exchange for something. Help. Compliance. Silence.

But just as your foot hovered over the threshold of your dorm building, a sharp tug yanked you backward by the wrist.

Your breath caught in your throat as your body twisted to face her.

Seojin.

Lip gloss perfect. Nails razor-sharp. Eyes dark with rage.

“You little backstabbing bitch,” she hissed, her grip tightening.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Let go of me,” you said, voice trembling, but not weak.

She didn’t.

“You made me look like an idiot,” she snapped. “You set me up. I should’ve known better than to trust some pathetic nobody with daddy issues and a victim complex.”

The words landed like darts. And yet, they didn’t surprise you. Not really.

Your throat tightened. That smile you’d worn just minutes ago had long since vanished.

“I tried to help you,” you shot back, voice sharp with something unfamiliar—defensiveness, maybe. Dignity, even. “I stayed up all night writing that essay. You didn’t even read it.”

“I don’t need to read your boring-ass essays,” she snapped. “I needed you to make me look good. And you couldn’t even do that right.”

A wave of shame flooded you—but beneath it, something stirred. Something angrier.

“I’ve done everything for you,” you said, barely above a whisper, but the words came out jagged. “You needed notes, I gave them. You needed answers during tests, I whispered them. You needed someone to do your work, I was stupid enough to say yes.”

She blinked, caught off guard for half a second. But her face twisted again.

“You always acted like you were just so grateful to be around me,” she sneered. “Don't act high and mighty now. You were nothing without me. You still are.”

You inhaled sharply.

That old voice in your head—the one that sounded like your father’s—wanted to agree with her. She’s right. You are nothing. A shadow. An imposter. A weak, needy little thing.

But now… now there was something else inside you. Something that had been watered in the cracks of Mr. Hwang’s classroom. In the underline of a “well done.” In the idea that maybe, just maybe, your thoughts had value beyond how well they pleased others.

“I’d rather be nothing on my own than a empty, shallow specimen of a human being like yourself” you said, voice shaking, but clear.

Her nostrils flared. Her eyes widened. Before you knew it, a sharp slap met your cheek.

◇

A whole week had passed since you made the decision—no, the devotion—to study for the contest. And every single evening  since, you had spent hunched over books and essays in Mr. Hwang’s office or the dim university library, those were your outside class preparation sessions.

The campus halls had grown colder, not literally, but in the way eyes glanced past you now. The whispers that once clung to your footsteps like perfume had turned sour. The same people who once called you “sweet” or “genius” now muttered traitor, desperate, attention whore.

You didn’t care anymore.

Because you’d rerouted your hunger—for love, for attention, for worth. You no longer scattered it across campus, or threw it like pennies into a social fountain. You’d honed it. Sharpened it. Aimed it entirely at one person.

Mr. Hwang.

Because he saw you.

And that was all you needed.

His attention wasn't like the fleeting friendships, or that affection you would get from boys back "home", not even your father's conditional approval. It felt grounding. Like worship. Like every sentence you wrote existed for him to read, underline, and silently nod at.

And tonight, he sat across from you in the quiet office, reading your preparation essay with that same piercing stillness he always had. The harsh fluorescent light above cast shadows under his eyes, made the stern lines of his face sharper. There was no softness in him—but God, didn’t that make your craving for his approval even worse?

He turned the page with elegant precision, his eyes scanning your words. Then he paused.

“‘It is not the monster in the forest they fear most, but the part of themselves that would welcome the beast as a savior.’” he read aloud, his voice low, deliberate.

He looked up at you, brows furrowing slightly. “That line… it’s particularly well written. And your insight is uncommon. But I can’t help but wonder—what exactly do you mean by that?”

You blinked, then allowed the smallest, sly smile to tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you began, voice casual but calculated, “sometimes survival looks an awful lot like surrender. And monsters? They usually wear the face of someone offering a solution.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then something shifted in his face—barely perceptible, but there. A soft twitch in the corner of his lips.

A smirk.

Fleeting. Rare.

But it was there.

“Interesting,” he said simply, returning to the page, though you swore you saw his gaze linger just a second too long.

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, not quite with thrill, but something in between. That small reaction from him had lit you up more than any compliment you’d ever received. And you weren’t sure what disturbed you more: how good it felt… or how badly you wanted to earn more.

◇

"My sweet Y/N,"

"I miss you every day. I wish I could’ve been better to you. I wish I could go back in time and take you away with me from that manipulative monster."

"I know you probably don’t want to speak to me, since you never responded to any of my previous letters..."

"I found out you got into a great college. I’m so proud of you."

"But I wish you could know—really know—that no matter what he told you, I always loved you. And I always will. My door is open for you, anytime. I’d love for you to meet my family. Me and my partner are having our second baby soon. How exciting!"

"Love, Mom."

You clutched the letter in your sweaty palms, the edges bending under the pressure of your grip. Your eyes were burning. You weren’t sure if it was grief or rage. Maybe both.

So she wasn’t a junkie.

She wasn’t living in a crackhouse like your father used to say, smugly, as he tossed her letters into the trash with a patronizing pat on your head.

And still, instead of relief, it stung.

She had a family. She had another child. Another child she gets to raise, to tuck in at night, to protect. You were the forgotten draft, a false start. You weren’t invited back into her life. You were invited to witness it.

She built a life without you.

And now, she reached out like it was easy. Like the years didn’t leave a scar.

Bitterness curdled in your stomach. You didn’t cry. You just... grabbed your pen.

You needed to bleed onto paper. To scream in ink. To claw your way out of that bitter void you’d been dropped into again.

The next assignment was open topic. Anything that explored mother-daughter relationships.

How fitting.

You chose a lesser-known novel, White Oleander, not the easiest read. Dark, poetic, layered with themes of toxic maternal bonds, abandonment, and emotional survival. It resonated deeply.

This time, you didn’t plan every word like a chess game. You didn’t even edit. You wrote. Pen scratching hard enough to almost pierce the page, the rhythm desperate, like your hands were working faster than your brain could even catch up. And when you were done... it was raw. Ugly. Beautiful.

◇

The next day, Mr. Hwang sat across from you, your essay in hand. His eyes scanned it in silence, his expression unreadable, as always. You waited—nervous, but a bit proud. This was different than your usual writing. This was you, naked on the page.

Finally, he looked up.

"Interesting," he said, tapping the corner of the paper. “Your word choices carry emotional intensity. The novel you selected—ambitious. White Oleander, not commonly chosen, but it demands emotional courage. I’m impressed."

He paused, then flipped to a highlighted paragraph, reading it out loud.

“‘It is easier to hate a mother who hits you than one who kisses you goodbye and never comes back.’”

His eyes didn’t leave the page. “Your insight into the mother’s abandonment… It’s as though you experienced it yourself. Many would argue that the mother is the sole villain, but you managed to... soften that verdict. You explored the daughter’s pain without sacrificing complexity.”

You didn’t mean to speak aloud. You didn’t even know the words were forming in your throat.

“Takes one to know one,” you murmured bitterly.

He raised his head slowly, brow lifting. “I’m sorry?” His voice wasn’t sharp, but it held weight.

You blinked rapidly. “Nothing. I'm sorry, Professor. I got distracted.”

A blush crept up your neck. You hated how exposed you felt. You wanted to crawl back into your mind and slam the door shut.

But then, as if pulled into his own thoughts, he stood from his chair and paced slowly toward the window, his arms crossed loosely. His gaze fixed somewhere outside.

“Miss L/N,” he said thoughtfully, “writing is an art form. And you know what they often say to painters?”

You looked up. “Paint what—”

He didn’t even have to finish.

“—Paint what you know,” you said, completing it softly.

He turned his head and gave you something so rare you almost didn’t recognize it: a ghost of a smile. Not quite pride. Not quite amusement. Just… quiet acknowledgment.

“Van Gogh painted from the raw chaos of his life. Frida Kahlo laid her suffering bare in brushstrokes. The list goes on. Your canvas is paper—and I, personally, would be very curious to see what you write... not about others. But about yourself. The kind of writing that doesn’t just analyze—but reveals. Unapologetically.”

You blinked at him, unsure if your heart was pounding out of anxiety or... something else. Your fingers twitched over your notebook.

He took a few slow steps towards you.

“I believe you have potential,” he said finally, voice steady, low. “The kind of potential that others one day analyze. Not the other way around.”

It was the highest praise you'd ever received. But it wasn’t just that. It was him saying it. And it felt like something dangerous blossomed quietly in your chest.

You swallowed, hard.

“Then I’ll try to write it,” you said softly, eyes meeting his.

“No,” he corrected, his voice firm but not unkind. “You will.”

◇

Something had shifted.

You didn’t just crave his academic praise anymore. You didn’t just want to be the perfect little student, the bright mind he guided and mentored. No—now you wanted him to see you. Really see you. As something more than a grade on paper. Something more than a pair of eyes across the desk.

So, today, you chose a short skirt—the one that accentuated the shape of your legs—and a fitted top that traced your waist like it was designed to worship it. It was subtle enough not to scream for attention, but deliberate enough that it whispered: look at me.

Your father’s voice had long ago sunk its venom into your self-worth. The way he used to dissect your appearance with a bitter tongue—too much this, not enough that—had left cracks in your mirror. But today, when you passed your reflection, you didn’t flinch. Because even with those words echoing from the past, the truth stood firm: you were beautiful.

And not just beautiful. Powerful.

You walked into class like you weren’t still haunted. Like your reputation wasn’t shredded by the likes of Seojin and her clique. The very same people who spray-painted snake across your dorm door, who left gum in your books and whispered behind your back.

But now?

Now, they looked.

Even the ones who mocked you days ago went silent when you walked by. Some stared. Some murmured. One even whistled low under his breath.

It was empowering. But still—it wasn’t for them.

You only wanted one person to look, you wanted him to notice- the same way you noticed how he doesn't have a ring on his finger.

You took your usual seat, not too far from the front, where you could observe Mr. Hwang with ease. Your pen danced across your notebook, dutiful and precise—but your eyes… they were on him.

The way he spoke about literature with such calm conviction, the way he would walk slowly across the classroom as if his thoughts guided his steps—the way his hands moved while he explained a passage from Crime and Punishment, the way his fingers tapped on the edge of the podium as he paused, choosing his words—

And then, his gaze flicked up. Just for a moment.

He looked at you.

Not at the class. Not past you. At you.

And then, just as quickly, he broke eye contact, returning to his notes.

But your heart didn’t care. It noticed. And it raced, cheeks warm, knees weak beneath the desk.

You couldn’t wait for your next prep session with him. Alone. Close. Seen.

You were still staring, maybe a little too dreamily, when a soft voice cut through the air near your ear.

"You really think that tight little outfit’s gonna make him want you?” Seojin whispered venomously from behind, her lips barely moving.

You flinched—not from fear, but rage. She said it with a fake smile plastered on her face, eyes still on the board. The casual cruelty of it made your skin crawl.

You didn’t look back at her. But your hand gripped your pen tighter.

No. You didn’t dress for him to want you. You dressed to remind yourself that you were not small. Not weak. Not invisible.

You were reclaiming the attention that had been taken from you—by your father’s contempt, by your mother’s absence, by the lies, the abandonment, the betrayal.

And if Mr. Hwang’s eyes lingered just a little longer next time—

Maybe you'd finally believe you were worth being looked at.

◇

For the contest preparation that day, you handed Professor Hwang an essay on 1984 by George Orwell.

It was sharp. Bold. Personal in the way only veiled honesty can be.

You wrote about Big Brother—not just as a symbol of authoritarian control—but as a metaphor for a kind of father. The kind that watches, dictates, rewrites your reality until you question your own perception. You drew subtle but aching parallels between the constant surveillance in 1984 and the way it feels to grow up in the home of a controlling, emotionally abusive parent.

And then, without explicitly stating it, you explored something darker:

The phenomenon of learning to love the one who hurts you. Of finding comfort in structure, in being watched, in craving approval from the very source of your fear.

Because if Big Brother saw you… then maybe you mattered.

Mr. Hwang sat across from you in his chair, reading slowly. His brow furrowed once. Then twice. He hummed lowly, nodding as he took it in, his fingers moving slightly along the bottom edge of the paper.

Then he tapped one part gently.

“The child who is raised to fear being unloved learns to chase approval like oxygen. She’ll fold herself into the shapes her father finds acceptable, blur the line between obedience and devotion, until even in adulthood, she’ll mistake power for protection—and authority for affection. That is how Big Brother becomes love.”

"This part is especially good," he said, eyes still on the paper, voice almost quiet. "It reads less like literary analysis and more like emotional archaeology."

You smiled softly, warmth spreading up your spine. “Thank you, Professor.” You felt like something inside you had just been acknowledged—not just your mind, but your pain, your effort, your truth.

He looked up. “Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”

Your smile widened slightly. Giddy, even. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and shifted in your seat, heart doing quiet flips.

“Now,” he said, adjusting his position. “I’d like to try something new with you today.”

Your brows raised. “New?”

He nodded, placing your essay gently aside. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’ll provide you a prompt. And I want you to free write. No books. No citations. Just you. Don’t overthink it. Don’t scratch anything out. Let the words come as they want to.”

You looked at him, slightly caught off guard. Your fingers instinctively went to the corner of your notebook.

“Are you up for it?” he asked, and the smallest smirk curled at the edge of his lips.

“Yes,” you whispered, a little breathlessly.

He didn’t break eye contact. “Your prompt is…” he paused, his gaze steady, piercing. “The result in young women of being subjected to emotional abuse from an early age.”

Your throat tightened. Your fingers clutched your pen.

Of course.

Of course he figured it out. He didn’t just read between the lines of your essays—he read you. It almost felt cruel. Or maybe it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. Given you the space to tell your story and then asked for more.

You stared at the blank page. The words didn’t hesitate. They bled.

You wrote about how it starts with walking on eggshells. About how silence becomes a kind of language. How you learn to smile before you cry. How your identity becomes so rooted in being what someone else needs that you forget what you need.

You wrote about people-pleasing. About the terror of disappointing someone. About how compliments make you squirm because you don’t trust them, but criticism feels like home.

You wrote about flinching at raised voices and melting at crumbs of attention. About becoming a chameleon, about being terrified of being too much and not enough at the same time.

You hadn’t meant to mention your father. You really hadn’t. But the words had minds of their own. And there it was:

“My father didn’t just control the house, he controlled my reflection. I learned to only see myself through his eyes.”

Your pen hovered. You panicked. You were about to cross it out.

And just then, Professor Hwang’s voice came, smooth and soft like velvet rope:

“Tsk, tsk. No crossing out.”

You froze, eyes darting up. He’d been watching you. You didn’t even realize. Not just watching—but observing. Studying you with the same intensity you gave to books.

He tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable but not unkind. “Every time you hesitate to express yourself… you censor something that someone else might’ve needed to read.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

You didn’t even hear the clock ticking. You didn’t feel the pen in your hand anymore. Just the hollow ache in your chest that finally had words.

You stopped writing only when Mr. Hwang reached for the paper, his fingers grazing the edge. Your pulse jumped slightly at the contact. You looked up—he wasn’t smiling. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes scanning rapidly.

He read in silence. You stared at the floor.

Then, finally, he leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the page. “This is… honest,” he said, slowly. “More than I expected.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know how to.

He shifted his gaze to you, something in his eyes different. “The part where you described yourself as ‘someone who only recognizes her own reflection in how others see her’—that was…” He hesitated. “Unsettling. And beautiful.”

Your stomach flipped. “I wasn’t trying to make it poetic,” you said, voice quieter than you intended. “It just… came out.”

“That’s when writing’s best,” he said softly, “when you’re not trying.”

He let out a breath and sat up straighter, placing the paper carefully in front of him. “You’re carrying a lot, Miss L/N.”

You shrugged, feeling exposed, embarrassed. “So are a lot of people.”

“True. But most don’t bleed it onto paper this clearly.”

You looked at him finally, your eyes meeting his, and it hit you that he wasn’t just impressed—he was moved. The kind of moved that unsettles even the person feeling it.

He studied your face like it was another page he had to analyze.

“I’m sorry if I crossed a line,” you said after a pause, “if it was too much.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, it wasn’t too much.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, the space between you suddenly feeling… smaller. “If anything, it made me wonder—”

He stopped.

You tilted your head. “Wonder what?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he glanced at the clock—as if suddenly aware of how much time had passed. “What kind of woman you’ll become if you keep writing like this.”

You swallowed. His voice was low. Intimate in its stillness.

“I think… I already know what kind of woman I am,” you said, something defiant under your breath.

He looked at you, more serious now. “No,” he said gently. “You know what kind of girl the world made you into. But you haven’t yet figured out the kind of woman you want to be.”

That struck something in you.

You weren’t sure what it was that shifted in that moment. Maybe it was the softness in his tone. The way he wasn’t just your professor right then. He wasn’t standing above you. He wasn’t lecturing. He was seeing you.

And you?

You were staring at his mouth when he said it. You were imagining how close you were. You were aware of the heat between you both and the way it felt safe and dangerous all at once.

You quickly looked back down at your notebook.

But something had sparked.

You both felt it. And neither of you said a word.

Not yet.

◇

It was a Friday night. The campus was nearly a ghost town—deserted dorm hallways, muffled bass of some party echoing from the far end of the grounds, and laughter trailing off into the cold air. Most students were out getting drunk, hooking up, or lounging with friends they’d had since orientation. Not you.

But that didn’t bother you anymore.

You had spent too long trying to fit into boxes that were never meant for you, into conversations that drained your soul, and into friendships that weren’t really friendships at all—just a desperate attempt to be liked. To be wanted. You once let them mold you into what they needed. But now?

Now, you were alone. And it didn’t feel like loneliness.

You were sitting on a bench in the quiet campus garden, beneath the yellow glow of a large street lamp that flickered ever so slightly. Its warm light fell over your lap, illuminating the worn pages of the book you were almost finished with—the last book on the contest list. Anna Karenina. It was a classic, one you kept putting off. Maybe because it mirrored too much. The subtle madness of love. The longing. The danger of giving in.

You turned a page when—

“Miss L/N.”

You looked up.

Mr. Hwang stood in front of you, briefcase in one hand, the other buried in the pocket of his dark wool coat. The campus light caught the edge of his jawline, the slight dishevel of his usually neat hair.

Your face softened. “Professor,” you said with a smile. “You’re still here this late?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you.”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling that familiar calmness his presence brought. “Let me guess. Still grading? Or finally catching up on that massive reading list you assigned me?”

He smirked. “A bit of both. Though I thought you would be out tonight, living like a normal college student. Partying. Making questionable choices.”

“Meh,” you waved him off, cracking a crooked grin. “My partying days are long behind me.”

“You’re nineteen,” he deadpanned.

“Exactly. I’m practically ancient,” you said dramatically, and it earned a rare laugh from him—low, real, unguarded.

He looked at you a moment longer before speaking again. “Still, I find it difficult to believe that someone like you doesn’t have a crowd of people fighting to spend time with her.”

You blinked. “Someone like me?”

He shrugged, casually, like he hadn’t just dropped a landmine. “A beautiful and intelligent woman,” he said smoothly.

You stared at him. For a second, you thought you imagined it. That your brain had replaced some neutral compliment with something bolder, more… intimate.

Your heart stammered.

“Now, Professor,” you said, your voice slightly breathless, recovering quickly with a smirk, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to flatter me.”

The words had already slipped before your inner filter could catch them.

He paused, then tilted his head. “Bold,” he murmured, amused. His mouth curved into a slow, deliberate smirk.

Your stomach twisted. But not out of fear.

You looked down at the book in your lap—suddenly very aware of the romantic tragedy in your hands—and then back up at him. His eyes were already on yours.

The space between you stayed heavy with the things neither of you could say.

But you both felt it.

◇

A week.

That’s all that was left until the contest. Seven days.

You had studied until the margins of your notebooks blurred into one another—plotlines, character studies, metaphor layers stacked like fragile towers in your mind. You had free-written until your fingers ached, pouring your soul into page after page. And yet, the nerves remained, fluttering just beneath your ribcage like something half-alive and far too aware.

Still, every time you voiced your doubts, Mr. Hwang would look you in the eye and say, “You’ll do great.”

And when he said it, somehow, you believed it. Or at least you wanted to.

Because no one ever made you feel as capable, as seen, as safe as he did.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that he needed you, too.

At first, it was easy for him to explain it away. You were his student. You were in a vulnerable position. It was his duty to guide you, to offer support, especially when no one else around you seemed to. When he’d see you in his office, fingers nervously twisting a pen or your sweater hem, but still trying so hard to be perfect for him—he’d remind himself: This is just empathy. Protection.

But the more he got to know you—the more he saw the wild, unfiltered brilliance of your thoughts, your passion for literature, the subtle sarcasm in your wit—the harder it became to lie to himself.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to protect you. It was that when you were near, the world seemed less out of control.

He didn’t like the guilt he felt.

You were so much younger. You were his student. You were, by all standards, off limits.

But the short skirts, the way your eyes lit up when you were proud of something, how you blushed when he complimented your work, how you told him things you’d never told anyone—what if?

What if you had met under different circumstances? What if there was a world where you could be each other’s secret?

And he hated himself for even letting those thoughts grow roots in his mind.

◇

“Y/N,” a voice called out, snapping you out of your thoughts as you were halfway through your bland cafeteria pasta.

You turned slowly.

It was Seojin’s boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, apparently.

Your brows furrowed, expression unreadable. He had that sheepish look some people wear when they only come to apologize because they can no longer avoid their guilt.

“Can we talk?” he asked awkwardly.

You didn’t speak, just gave a stiff nod and followed him to a quiet table near the back, away from the handful of students still lingering around.

“Seojin and I broke up,” he said bluntly, like it was supposed to mean something to you.

You blinked once, expression still cold. “So?”

He hesitated, taken aback by your indifference.

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally said. “It was wrong of me to… talk shit about you. Especially knowing that she was completely in the wrong.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. His words didn’t soothe anything. If anything, they irritated the rawness that was still healing in you.

“So why did you do it?” Your voice was even, but heavy.

He gave a pathetic laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want her to be disappointed. I guess… I didn’t want to lose her.”

You stared at him. And you almost—almost—felt a flicker of something like empathy.

Maybe he was like you. Maybe he, too, twisted himself around others to feel like he was enough.

But that thought vanished as quickly as it came.

“People pleasing is one thing,” you said quietly, but firmly. “Deliberately choosing to hurt someone is another.”

He opened his mouth, probably to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.

You stood up and walked away.

And for once, you didn’t look back.

◇

"I'm nervous," you said, your voice soft as it echoed lightly in the dim, warm-lit office. You were lounging in the familiar leather chair across from Professor Hwang, legs folded underneath you, half a bag of your favorite snacks already gone. It was your last study session before the contest, and yet it had slowly turned into one of your usual… not-quite-student, not-quite-anything-else hangouts.

Over the months, you’d grown so comfortable with him. So familiar. You talked about everything—books, your childhood, politics, your weird food preferences, and his even weirder sleep schedule. There was a ritual now. You’d come in, he'd already have your favorite snack waiting, he’d correct papers, and you’d ramble or write or sometimes just sit in silence. It didn’t feel academic anymore. It felt like home.

“About?” he asked without looking up, his pen gliding across a student's essay with practiced indifference.

“The contest. Global warming,” you said flatly, with a little shrug, popping another chip into your mouth.

That earned a soft laugh from him.

“Well, perhaps you could make yourself useful and help me grade these,” he said, gesturing to a stack of papers, “Get your mind off the planet’s slow death.”

You rolled your eyes but grabbed a few pages from the top. “With pleasure, Professor.”

You read silently for a few minutes—until something made your eyebrows shoot up. You bit your lip to hold it in, but failed miserably, bursting into laughter.

He looked up, mildly amused. “What’s so funny?”

You held up the paper and read out loud, barely containing your snickers:

“In times of war, humans lose their human-nality. This is very present in The Great Gatsby, where Gatsby dies because of his love for money.”

You wheezed. “Human-nality, Professor. The Great Gatsby... about war. I'm sorry, I thought this was a prestigious university. How did this person get in?!”

He smirked, setting down his pen. “Money,” he said without hesitation, his voice dry. “You see, while you have to offer your beautiful brain, others have to offer nepotism.”

You laughed, still shaking your head in disbelief. “Beautiful brain, huh? You sound like you wanna dissect it, Professor.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I feel as if I already have.”

That shut you up. Not completely, but just enough. His tone wasn’t teasing—at least not entirely. There was something under it, laced like velvet and smoke. Something knowing.

You blinked, caught off guard, lips slightly parted.

His eyes were on you now. Not flitting, not avoiding—just on you.

There was a beat of silence.

“I—” you started, but didn’t know how to finish.

He smiled. Soft. Barely there. “What?”

“I don’t know,” you murmured, a nervous laugh escaping. “You just… you always say the most unexpected shit, Professor.”

He leaned back in his chair, the lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. “That’s because you always expect the worst.”

You stared at him again.

He wasn’t wrong.

“You’re right,” you admitted quietly.

A long pause.

And then he said, voice low:

“I think you’ve gotten too used to people hurting you… that you don’t recognize when someone is trying to do the opposite.”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was too much. Too gentle. Too kind.

You looked away, blinking fast. “You’re not supposed to say things like that, Professor.”

“I know,” he said. “But I meant it.”

And in that moment, something quiet but powerful passed between you. A shift. Not new. Not sudden. But undeniable.

The air felt heavier now. Like the kind of silence that carries a thousand unsaid things.

And neither of you moved.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly more formal, more distant. “Are you aware that after the contest, there will be a hosted gala while participants wait for the jury’s decision? And the family members listed on university records have been invited?”

Your heart stopped. Cold washed over you like a crashing wave, all warmth ripped from your skin.

That meant…

Your father.

Your father was invited.

The very man who for years made you believe you were nothing. Who manipulated your thoughts until you couldn't distinguish your own reflection from the image he painted of you. Who never flinched to raise his voice—or worse.

“W-what do you mean?” your voice trembled, uneven and tight, like your throat was trying to protect you from letting anything out at all.

He noticed immediately.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

It was the first time he called you by your name, and in a different context it might’ve made your stomach flutter. But now it only twisted.

“What do you mean he’s going to be here?” you repeated yourself, your eyes wide, a frantic edge in your tone. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N,” he said again, this time standing up slowly, his expression firm but full of concern. “Calm down.”

But how could you?

You couldn’t breathe. The thought of being in the same room as your father, smiling politely as though you hadn’t only just begun to piece yourself back together… it was too much.

He stepped closer, his presence steady, anchoring. He placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I’ll talk to the organizer,” he said. “I’ll make sure his name is removed from the guest list. You won’t have to see him.”

Your knees wobbled from the tension that left your body all at once. You looked up at him with tearful eyes, your vision blurred, and something inside you cracked completely. Without thinking, needing something—someone—you stood and took a step toward him, pressing yourself against his chest, burying your face there. Your arms wrapped around him tightly, almost desperately.

He tensed beneath your touch, as if his body was trying to remember where the line was drawn. But then, slowly… he exhaled and returned the embrace, holding you close with a sigh.

“You really shouldn’t do this,” he murmured against the top of your head, his voice low, strained.

“But I want to,” you whimpered. Your voice sounded small. Vulnerable.

You looked up at him, your tear-streaked face tilted to meet his gaze, searching his expression for an answer—any answer. You weren’t thinking about what was right or wrong anymore. You were thinking about how safe this felt. How right.

“You’re not making this easy,” he said, his eyes heavy with guilt and something else—something deeper, something he wouldn’t say out loud.

You furrowed your brows softly. “What exactly?” Your voice was quiet. But there was a boldness to the question. A need to know what he was really thinking.

“My job,” he admitted, his hand still resting on your back, warm and grounding. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Yet you’re holding me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

◇

It was just moments before the contest. Each participant was given a private room to gather their thoughts, to be alone with their mentor before stepping into the hall where everything would unfold. You were seated in one of those rooms now, a small, softly lit space with a mahogany table and velvet curtains drawn tight, giving the illusion of comfort, though your insides felt anything but.

Your leg bounced uncontrollably under the table, heel tapping against the hardwood floor like a metronome for your anxious thoughts. Your fingers were clenched around a pen like it was a lifeline—or maybe a weapon. Your stomach churned.

You didn’t want to let him down. Not him.

"Don't be nervous," Mr. Hwang said from across the table, his voice warm and certain. He leaned forward, his elbows resting loosely as he watched you with those endlessly calm eyes. “You’ll do amazing. I know it.”

"Yeah but—what if I suddenly write something stupid? Or forget what I even read? Or—I don’t know, I might as well stab myself with this damn pen," you muttered, dramatically lifting it toward your throat like a dagger.

He laughed softly, the sound cutting through your spiral. He reached out without hesitation, gently taking the hand that held the pen. The contact sent a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat. You weren’t used to people touching you so carefully, so deliberately.

“You’ll do great,” he repeated, this time more firmly, his fingers curling around yours in quiet reassurance.

You were trying to hold it together, but your other hand betrayed you, rising to your lips as you began anxiously picking at the skin. Before you could even draw blood, he reached out and caught that hand too. Now both your wrists were cradled in his hands, and the proximity between you suddenly felt… different.

"You're one of the brightest minds I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice low and soft, like he didn’t want the walls to overhear. “Trust yourself. Trust your abilities.”

You swallowed hard, then raised your chin with a crooked smile, trying to smother the intensity of the moment with humor. “One of? Please. It’s physically impossible to find another genius like me.”

He chuckled, eyes glinting. “Takes one to know one,” he murmured, and a soft smile pulled at his lips. His hands hadn’t left your wrists. His grip was gentle, but grounding.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you teased, leaning in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at your mouth. “You wish you could be on my level.”

His smile widened. “Could you remind me who’s mentoring who again?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward too.

“I’m just hanging around to make sure your rusty brain doesn’t fail from lack of use,” you said, eyes gleaming with challenge. Your faces were now so close, the air between you humming with a quiet, electric tension.

Your gaze flicked to his lips without meaning to, and before you could look away, you saw it—he noticed. He saw you looking. But instead of pulling back, he leaned in—just an inch closer.

You didn’t move.

The world felt suspended. Time paused in that heartbeat between wanting and restraint.

Then—

Bzzt.

A soft static crackled through the wall speaker, followed by a woman’s voice:

“All participants are to immediately gather in the contest hall. The time for the contest has come.”

And just like that, the moment snapped. You pulled back, breath shaky, and stood.

He stood as well, smoothing out his shirt like nothing happened, but the look in his eyes lingered. He reached for your shoulder gently and said, “Go show them what you’re made of.”

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and without another word, stepped out of the room—leaving behind something electric, something unfinished.

◇

The room was cold.

Rows and rows of long tables, overhead lights too bright, the scrape of metal chair legs and the occasional cough echoing like gunshots in a church. Everyone was already seated, hunched over their crisp sheets, pens uncapped, waiting.

Your hands were damp.

You sat down, back stiff, ignoring the knot in your stomach. Mr. Hwang’s words still echoed from the night before—“You are capable of more than you think.”

You didn’t believe him.

The proctor passed the glass bowl down the row. One slip. Fifteen possible books. One chance.

You reached in and pulled.

Your heart stuttered.

Lolita.

The irony hit like a slap. Of course it was Lolita. The book you referenced for Seojin’s essay. The essay that got you into this mess. The essay that made Mr. Hwang notice you. The beginning of it all.

You didn’t even react. You just stared at the word for a long moment, then flipped the slip to reveal the prompt:

“Write about the line between control and vulnerability.”

Fine.

Okay.

Your fingers curled around your pen. The blank page blinked up at you. You looked around—others were already writing. Some scribbling furiously, others with their brows furrowed in deep, intellectual contemplation.

You just… sat there.

Nothing came.

Your mind was empty. Like someone had scooped out your thoughts with a spoon and left only silence behind.

You tried to breathe deeply, but it caught halfway up your throat. Every inhale felt like glass.

Words floated to the surface and immediately sank.

You glanced up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall was louder than your thoughts. Louder than anything. You clenched your pen so tightly your knuckles ached.

Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Still nothing.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run.

You wanted to go back in time and never say yes to Seojin.

Never write that essay.

Never get caught.

Never be seen.

But you stayed. Frozen.

Until—

With ten minutes left on the clock, something gave.

You weren’t sure what. It wasn’t calm, exactly. But it was quiet. Like everything around you fell away.

Your hand moved.

You didn’t think. You just wrote.

You wrote about how control is rarely loud. How it hides in politeness. In soft voices and carefully chosen words. How vulnerability isn’t always weakness—sometimes, it’s just exhaustion. Just the last bit of you someone hasn’t taken yet.

You didn’t name Humbert. You didn’t have to. You wrote about the way people rewrite stories to make themselves feel better. About how power makes a person rewrite other people, too.

You wrote without stopping. Without breathing.

And when the final call came—“Pencils down”—your hand dropped.

The spell broke.

Your wrist throbbed. Your eyes burned. But in front of you was a page filled to the edges.

You didn’t know if it was good.

But it was yours.

◇

“How did it go?” Mr. Hwang asked as you stepped out of the contest hall.

You rubbed your hands together nervously, fingers still trembling from the adrenaline. “I don’t know. I have no idea. So many of the other contestants seemed more focused and... put together.” You shrugged, your voice small, your gaze fixed on the floor.

“Don’t focus on them,” he said, calm as ever. “Focus on yourself.”

Then, with a glance at his watch, “Now let’s go. The gala will start in a moment.”

You nodded and fell into step beside him.

The walk across campus was breathtaking in that subtle, end-of-day way. The sun hung low, brushing the tops of buildings with gold. The air was warm and smelled faintly of grass and jasmine. Trees rustled gently overhead, and the sky—painted with streaks of pink and orange—seemed to soften the world.

“You seem lost in thought,” he said after a moment. “Global warming again?”

That pulled a laugh from you—soft and unexpected.

◇

The venue was grand—an old brick hall lit with chandeliers just beginning to flicker to life as dusk deepened. Outside, a red rope guided attendees through the gates. A suited guard stood by a podium, checking names off a list with practiced precision.

“Hwang Inho and Y/N L/N,” Mr. Hwang announced to the guard, his voice low and composed.

But just as you stepped forward—

“Y/N.”

You froze.

Your spine locked up before your brain could catch up. You knew that voice. Too well. The way it always scraped like broken glass. The way it used to slam through walls.

“Dad,” you breathed. So quiet only Mr. Hwang could hear.

He turned to you, brows furrowed, confused. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

You thought—hoped—Mr. Hwang had told the organizers to scratch his name off the list. But somehow, he was here.

The guard frowned. “Sir, for the last time, your name isn’t on the guest list. Please leave.”

But your father didn’t do “leave.”

In one sudden, violent motion, he lunged forward and slammed the guard into the brick wall, grabbing him by the collar.

“Am I some fucking joke to you?!” he roared. “I was invited and now what? I’m uninvited to see my own stupid daughter?”

Chaos sparked. Guests backed away. Phones came out. You didn’t move.

The guard recovered quickly, shoving your father to the ground and pinning him there.

“Ma’am,” the guard said, looking up, breathless but steady, “do you know this man?”

You stared ahead, blank.

“I don’t,” you said quietly.

But your father kept thrashing under the guard’s grip, red-faced and livid. “You little bitch!” he spat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re just like your mother! Fucking little whore!”

Every syllable echoed.

You felt yourself shrink, humiliated. Everyone could see it—see him. Even if you’d denied it, even if you tried to pretend—you were exposed.

“That’s enough,” Mr. Hwang said, stepping forward. “Call the police.”

Then he turned to you and gently nudged your arm. “Come on.”

You walked inside on shaking legs.

◇

The moment you both reached a private booth at the back of the venue, you collapsed into the seat, head down, hands clenched. The tremors came in waves. And then—tears. Hot, violent tears that broke through everything.

“I hate him,” you choked out.

Mr. Hwang sat beside you, his presence calm but close. You hated how he looked at you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snapped, wiping at your face, smearing mascara down your cheeks.

“Like what?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Like you pity me.” Your voice cracked. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

But his voice was steady. “I don’t pity you. I know you’re strong.”

He reached out gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the black streaks away. The touch was soft. Careful. But it made your breath hitch.

You looked at him.

And without thinking, you leaned in.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly, almost fondly.

You laughed—a broken, breathless sound—and leaned closer.

Then he kissed you.

It was slow. Careful. Sinful. The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen. The kind that crossed a thousand unspoken lines. But it felt too good. His hand slid behind your head, the other moving in slow, calming circles on your back.

You clutched his suit sleeves, grounding yourself in him like he might disappear.

He pulled back just slightly, breath warm against your lips.

“We mustn’t,” he murmured, voice low.

“But we want to,” you whispered.

And you kissed him again.

◇

A woman in a sleek navy dress took the stage, microphone in hand. The soft hum of conversation quieted as the room shifted their focus toward her. She smiled with practiced warmth and began:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. It’s been an exceptional year for the Creative Writing Gala, and we’ve been truly moved by the courage, depth, and creativity of all the submissions.”

You swallowed tightly, pressing your fingers together in your lap.

“Let’s begin with our three honorable mentions.”

She glanced down at her card.

“Our first honorable mention goes to Kang Jiwoo, with the prompt: ‘Explore the emotional inheritance between mother and daughter. Reference The Vegetarian by Han Kang.’”

Polite applause stirred the air. A girl in a dusty lavender blouse stood from one of the mid-tier tables. She walked up with quiet confidence, her black flats almost silent on the carpet. She bowed modestly as she accepted her certificate.

“Second honorable mention—Choi Daehyun. His prompt: ‘Write about the intersection of time and grief. Use The Guest by Albert Camus as a lens.’”

A tall boy with sharp cheekbones and a blazer that clearly cost more than your rent stood and smoothed down the sides of his hair before taking the stage. He shook hands like he’d done this before.

“And third—Min Seohee. Prompt: ‘Explore identity in the context of performance. Use Persona by Ingmar Bergman as a thematic reference.’”

Min Seohee stood slowly, her cream silk dress catching the light. She moved like a ballerina, all grace and intention, smiling gently as she took her place beside the others.

You applauded with everyone else, your smile carefully maintained. But inside, something slumped. Your name hadn’t been called. Even among the “almosts,” you were nowhere.

Of course not.

You leaned slightly back in your chair, letting your eyes drift upward to the chandeliers, watching the reflections flicker across the ceiling like ghosts.

“And now,” the announcer said brightly, “our top three winners.”

You didn’t even brace yourself. You already knew.

“Third place—Ryu Haneul. Prompt: ‘Write about betrayal within intimacy. Use Medea by Euripides as metaphor.’”

A small gasp left him, genuine. His glasses were slightly askew as he stumbled up to the stage, a little dazed but grinning.

“Second place—Kim Ara. Prompt: ‘Write about the dissonance between appearance and reality in love. Draw from The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.’”

Kim Ara floated toward the podium, her black off-shoulder dress hugging her like a second skin. She bowed, calm and polished, already used to stages.

You didn’t feel disappointment anymore. Just the dull echo of having expected nothing and getting exactly that.

“And finally…” The woman paused, smiling like she’d been saving this name. “First place—Y/N L/N, with the prompt: ‘Write about the line between control and vulnerability. Reference Lolita by Nabokov.’”

Your name fell from her lips like it didn’t belong there. You blinked.

Your brows pulled together instinctively. No. No, that can’t be right. But then, beside you, Mr. Hwang turned his head and looked at you—not with shock, but with pride—and gently nudged your arm.

“Go on.”

The room tilted slightly as you stood. Or maybe it was just your body catching up with your brain. People were clapping. Looking at you.

You made your way up to the stage, feeling like you were walking through water. The lights hit you hard, and your palms were sweating, but someone was there—smiling, guiding you—handing you the plaque.

“Congratulations,” they said.

You nodded faintly and took your place. Another hand passed you a microphone.

You didn’t want to speak. But you had to.

You took it with both hands, gripping like it might anchor you. Your voice, at first, came out barely above a whisper:

“I…”

You scanned the crowd quickly, eyes catching on Mr. Hwang’s silhouette below, calm and steady as always.

“I didn’t think I’d be standing here,” you admitted, letting out a breath of disbelief. “I guess I just want to say thank you to Professor Hwang—for encouraging me to submit even when I felt like I shouldn’t. For not treating me like a joke when I wrote something this personal.”

You exhaled a laugh, still a little shaken. “It’s kind of ironic, actually. The book that sparked everything…ended up being my prompt.”

A soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience.

“I didn’t think I had something to say. But… apparently I did. So… thank you.”

You stepped back from the mic as applause swelled around you—warm, real, loud.

◇

"I told you, Y/N," Professor Hwang said simply, his tone light but with an edge of pride, as he walked beside you on the way back to your dorm. "I really didn't expect it," you murmured, your voice still tinged with disbelief as the weight of the evening settled over you.

Before you could add anything else, he paused. "Before you go, I have something for you," he said, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You hadn’t expected him to have anything else in mind.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, elegant box wrapped in a subtle ribbon. Your heart fluttered a little as he handed it to you, the simple gesture feeling strangely intimate.

"What is it?" you asked, your fingers gently brushing the ribbon. It felt like an invitation—an opening.

"Open it," he said with a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the suspense. You smiled in compliance, carefully peeling back the ribbon and lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in the soft velvet, was a fancy pen—sleek, black with gold trim, elegant and somehow fitting for someone like him.

You couldn’t help but smile widely, the warmth spreading through you. "Thank you, wow," you said, your voice tinged with genuine appreciation. "It's beautiful"

Grinning, you leaned in, almost instinctively, to plant a quick kiss on his lips in gratitude. But as soon as you moved closer, he stepped back, gently holding up a hand.

"It's unprofessional," he said, his voice firm yet soft, "I'm your professor."

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face, followed by a quick surge of frustration. A tinge of sadness coursed through you—why did it feel like he was pushing you away, when before he initiated kissing you himself? You fought down the flicker of anger that bubbled up. Why does it have to be this way?

But instead of arguing, you stayed silent. There was no point in pushing it, no point in looking pathetic, or fighting. With a stiff nod, you turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, and started walking toward your dorm. You could feel him watching you, but you didn’t dare look back.

For Professor Hwang, the words he’d spoken didn’t sit right.He couldn’t deny it. The attraction he felt toward you was real, undeniable. Something that shouldn’t have happened. He wanted to pull back, to ignore it, to make it go away before it was too late. But the truth was, the more he tried to suppress it, the stronger it became. And that frightened him more than he cared to admit.

◇

As you stepped foot into your dorm building, the hum of the evening faded behind you, but the ache of that earlier rejection still burning.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the stillness. “I heard you won.”

You turned, your eyes falling on Seojin’s ex-boyfriend standing nearby. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, his eyes a little puffy, but there was something earnest about him.

“I did,” you said, your voice a little flat, still numb from the emotional rollercoaster of the night.

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Look… I know that I did wrong,” he started, his tone careful, apologetic. “And I really thought about it. I’m not proud of what I did to Seojin, to you. I know no matter what I say, it doesn’t make it any less bad. But… I just want you to know that I regret it. I see that now.”

Your gaze softened as his words sank in. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a step. “Thank you for saying that,” you said quietly, the weight of the conversation pulling you into a different space.

He smiled faintly, his eyes lighting up a little. "Hey… maybe we should celebrate your victory? I mean, I’m kind of rotting in solitude today, and I get the feeling you might want some company too?"

You sighed, the sting of Mr. Hwang’s rejection still fresh. There was a strange comfort in his offer, even if it came from someone who had been part of a past that felt so distant now.

“You know what, fuck it. Let’s go,” you said with a shrug, trying to brush off the tension, wanting—needing—something else to occupy your mind. Anything to stop thinking about what you couldn't have.

His grin widened, and for the first time tonight, you felt a flicker of something like relief. You could pretend for just a moment.

◇

“No way you did that,” you burst out laughing, your face flushed and dazed from the Soju you had been gulping down with him. The two of you were just sitting on the ground in the campus garden, the soft grass beneath you, night air cool but pleasant. The stars above blinked gently, and the quiet hum of the campus at night made it feel like the world had paused just for the two of you. “Yeah, guess what happened next,” he said, his words slurring slightly, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“What? What?” you asked eagerly, your eyes wide and sparkling, voice full of excitement like a kid listening to the climax of a wild story.

But then, suddenly, his expression changed. Hardened. “She died,” he said quietly, the laughter gone, pain suddenly darkening his eyes.

You froze, your heart thudding in your chest. “I—I’m so sorry…” you murmured, your voice small, unsure.

He stared at you for a beat longer before breaking into a cackle. “Kidding! I got you real good!” He threw his head back and burst into laughter, practically rolling onto the grass from how hard he was laughing.

You blinked, stunned for a moment, before groaning and slapping his back playfully. “You idiot!” you laughed, your voice high with relief and mock outrage, before you both fell into another round of giggles.

Truth be told, it had surprised you—how nice it was, spending time with him. How light and easy he made things feel. He was actually funny. And, when he wasn’t being an idiot, he was even smart. He noticed little things, asked good questions, made you feel like you could breathe for a second without the weight of everything else.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, as he pushed himself up to sit properly.

“What?” you asked, looking over at him, your eyes slightly glazed from the drink, cheeks warm, hair falling a little out of place in the wind.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re, like, really pretty?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you looked away, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Shut up,” you said, but your voice held no bite—only the faintest trace of flattery you didn’t want to admit.

He grinned wider. “No, I mean it,” he added, a bit more sincerely this time.

And you just laughed, shaking your head, letting the moment be whatever it was. A little blurry, a little strange—but kind of nice.

◇

You found yourself spending more and more time with him. Maybe it was to get back at Mr. Hwang, to spark jealousy—but even if that was the case, you couldn’t deny how light, how effortlessly carefree you felt around him… even though he was Seojin’s ex-boyfriend.

Now, the two of you sat together in class. Your gaze drifted toward Mr. Hwang as he spoke, his voice calm, authoritative. And you saw it—he was watching you, too. It was tense, awkward, after everything you’d shared… after his rejection.

You were drowning in thought, your heart still aching, when suddenly, fingers began playing with your hair—his fingers. Seojin’s ex. You laughed softly under your breath.

“What are you doing?” you whisper-hissed, finally tearing your eyes away from Mr. Hwang.

“It’s soft,” he murmured, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Then, as Mr. Hwang continued his lecture on The Picture of Dorian Gray, he leaned in again.

“Is it just me, or does it sound like Dorian wanted to fuck his own portrait?” he whispered.

You tried to contain your laughter—but failed miserably.

“It’s just you,” you giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. Mr. Hwang noticed. And he hated it.

Yes, he had rejected you—but seeing you laugh like that, engage so easily with someone else… it made his blood boil. He was livid. That idiot didn’t even know you. Not like he did.

Class ended. Your friend waited by your desk as you gathered your things.

“Come on, let’s go eat something!” he grinned, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re paying,” you said, smirking.

“All right, my lord,” he teased, bowing with mock grace.

Mr. Hwang had seen enough. His composure cracked.

“Miss L/N,” he said sharply, “please stay for a moment.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow, confused, but didn’t argue. You both approached the desk.

“I wish to speak with her privately,” Mr. Hwang added coldly, directing the words like a blade.

Your friend hesitated, but nodded and stepped out of the room.

You sighed, folding your arms. “What is it now?”

His eyes locked onto yours. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, voice low but intense.

“On purpose?” you let out a dry laugh. “Can’t a girl have friends anymore?” you said, your tone light but laced with defiance.

“Friends?” he repeated, stepping closer. “Is that what friends do—twirl each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings in the middle of my class?”

That struck a nerve. You were done playing nice.

You walked over to his desk and sat on top of it, deliberately slow. You pulled a candy from your bag and popped it into your mouth, letting your lips linger around it. “I don’t know,” you said with a smirk, “but friends with benefits definitely do.”

His jaw tensed. His face darkened.

“Did the two of you—?” he started, struggling to keep his composure.

“Oh, we did,” you said, feigning innocence. “And it was amazing.”

“Stop it,” he snapped, his voice rough, desperate.

You leaned in, licking the edge of the candy. “If you only knew the things he made me feel… things that, if I wrote about them, I’d win every writing contest out there.”

You tilted your head. “He’s kind of like a mentor, you know,” you added with a hum.

That was the last straw.

Suddenly, he grabbed you and kissed you—nothing like before. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t hesitant. This was hungry, possessive. He was trying to claim you. And you let him.

“You’re torturing me on purpose,” he growled between kisses, his teeth gently sinking into your lower lip. You dug your nails into his back in response.

“Seeing you like this, God—” he breathed, his hands gripping your waist.

“Say it,” you demanded, your voice a whisper against his mouth.

He paused, lips hovering just inches from yours, brows furrowed. “Say what?”

“Say you want me. Say you won’t reject me again.”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

“I want you,” he murmured, “and I’ll never leave you.”

His breath was warm against your neck as he pinned you between his body and the wall, your thighs locked around his waist. His hands roamed with purpose now—no more hesitation, no more pretending.

“Can you keep a secret?” he repeated, voice thick with desire.

You smiled, your lips brushing his ear. “Only if you make it worth hiding.”

That did something to him. His grip on your hips tightened, and he rolled his body against yours, slow but deliberate. The desk? Forgotten. The classroom? Irrelevant. Right now, there was only the heat between you.

His lips found your neck, trailing a slow, maddening path up to your jaw. “You drive me insane,” he growled. “I can’t stand seeing you with him.”

You arched into him, your fingers tangled in his hair. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before pushing me away.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark with something primal. “I’m not pushing you away now.”

“No,” you whispered, “you’re doing the exact opposite.”

His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing your skin like a secret. “I’ve imagined this,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Then stop imagining,” you breathed, tugging him back into a kiss—hotter, deeper, filled with all the tension that had built between you. It was messy, unrestrained, addictive.

He kissed you like a man unraveling.

Then suddenly—he paused. His forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

“This is dangerous,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, eyes hooded. “Good. I like dangerous.”

A crooked smile formed on his lips. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Still holding you, he moved back toward the desk and set you down gently, as if grounding himself.

But the way his eyes lingered on your lips, the way his fingers brushed your thigh… he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Meet me tonight,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “After everyone’s gone. No more hiding. I want you. All of you.”

Your heart raced. You leaned in, your lips ghosting over his. “You better make it worth the risk, Professor.”

And with that, you turned and walked out—leaving him breathless, his fists clenched at his sides, already counting down the hours until nightfall.

[sweetiesicheng]

dino - borrowed

word count : 586

happy birthday to the future of kpop himself, pi cheolin dino!!

-

"y/n! open the damn door!"

you heard someone pound on your front door. you sat up, confused because you swore it was sunday instead of monday, which meant that you didn't have to scramble out of bed in order to get to class.

you got out of bed and walked out of your room.

"y/n!"

is that...chan?

the person kept knocking on your door as you made it to the front door. you looked through your peephole to see chan in your hallway of your apartment building. you unlocked the door and opened it as he was about to slam his fist again.

"it's seven in the morning, chan," you immediately spoke. your voice sounded incredibly groggy so you quickly cleared it. "what do you want?" you asked, looking into the hallway to see if any of your neighbors were out and hoping they would not file a noise complaint.

"where is it?" chan asked.

"where's what?" you questioned him. it was way too early for you to try to figure out what he was looking for. one of his hoodies? one of his cds that he let you borrow? what could he need so early in the day?

chan barged into your apartment, slipping out of his sneakers and went straight for your desk that was by a window. you closed the door and watched him start opening drawers and looking through containers.

"chan, it's seven in the morning, and i am very incoherent right now. please tell me what you're looking for so i can go back to bed and have my day off in peace," you said to him as you walked over to him.

he closed a drawer and stood up straight while turning to face you. "where's my lucky calculator?" he asked you.

"are you serious right now? you barge in here just for a calculator?" you immediately asked him. "it's not even yours, it's my calculator."

"it's lucky! how do you think i got an a on my last exam?" chan replied to you.

"by programming the formulas you needed into it," you replied. you had watched him program his calculator with mingyu a few weeks prior for one of their math exams.

"okay, true, but my professor is letting us take our exam online, and i need to take it by today," chan said to you, "so where's my calculator?" he asked.

you grumbled and turned around. "i'm going to kill you if you come back here later. give it back tonight, i need it for my assignments too," you said and walked to the couch, which was where your backpack was. you opened your backpack and took your calculator out. you held it over your shoulder, and chan grabbed it from you.

"thanks y/n! you're the best!" he exclaimed and ran to the front door. you followed him and watched him put his sneakers back on. "i'll text you later," he said.

"you can text me when i'm awake," you replied and opened the door. "go, let me sleep."

"see ya!" chan sprinted out of your apartment and down the hallway towards the elevators.

you closed and locked the door. then, you went to your couch and laid down, pushing your backpack off in the process. you threw a blanket over you and closed your eyes, easily slipping back to sleep.

all of a sudden, you heard pounding in your front door again, "y/n! do you have extra batteries?"

"go ask someone else!"

[myeyesarebiggerthanmybladder]

HEY YOU!!!!!!! RECITE THE NUMBERS OF PI (/nf!)

I appreciate your use of the /nf tone tag, which I am to assume is short for "not forcing" -- doing so is very thoughtful and reduces the pressure to answer a question. I will, however, gladly answer this one as I have memorised quite a few digits of pi, though it would be impossible for me to know the whole number with every decimal place because even today's computers have been unable to find an end to the number. I have always been rather good at memorising numbers -- for example when I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation I was able to memorise a security code said by Leitenent Commander Data which was fifty two characters long and went, 173467321476C32789777643T732V73117888732476789764376. The number can be heard in the viral song "Data and Picard" which sampled dialogue from the series to create a rather catchy tune. The song is, of course, in English, though I originally watched the show with Japanese subtitles. I can speak English but it makes watching a TV series slightly more laborious as I have to translate every line of dialogue in my head before understanding the communication between the characters. It can provide a bit of mental stimulation, though, so when I am in the mood I sometimes watch foreign films or TV shows without subtitles. Anyway, you asked me to recite Pi and I still haven't done as you requested! You can find Pi by calculating 22 divided by 7. As you probably know, 7 fits neatly into 21 (three times to be exact) but does not fit so perfectly into 22, and this is why we are left with such an awkwardly long number. Since 7 fits into 21 three times, the first digit of Pi is of course 3, but there are many decimal places that come after that. If you look online you can find a downloadable PDF which shows the first million digits of Pi. When I first heard of the number Pi I was rather confused, as I thought that surely many calculations would result in an awkward number that had no foreseeable end -- at the time I did not realise that Pi was an important factor of several mathematical formulas, such as the one used to calculate the area of a circle. I sometimes wonder how these incredible things are discovered -- I suppose when someone is incredibly proficient in mathematics it must become enjoyable to play with numbers until one stumbles across a startling discovery. Mathematics may seem abstract and, in some cases useless while learning it in school, but if it weren't for those knowledgable in the subject we really wouldn't be where we are today, and even those who are not mathematicians often need a basic knowledge of the subject.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Billions in revenue from betting expected for Brazil states and municipalities

Study estimates new taxes on online gambling after reform in Brazil could generate up to R$7.4bn annually for local governments and R$11.1bn in total

The tax reform on consumption could bring new revenue to states and municipalities through the collection of the new Goods and Services Tax (IBS) on sports betting. Under current legislation, betting transactions are not subject to state taxation, and the potential for consumption tax collection is hindered by difficulties in taxing companies not headquartered in Brazil, even as operators see increasing revenues from bets placed by Brazilians.

According to estimates by the Tax Group Intelligence in Taxation, the reform could result in annual revenue of R$11.13 billion in dual Value Added Tax (VAT), with R$3.7 billion going to the federal government and R$7.43 billion to states and municipalities. The calculation is based on GGR (Gross Gaming Revenue), defined as the net revenue obtained by subtracting payouts to bettors from the total amount wagered. Under current rules, potential annual consumption tax revenue — considering federal PIS and COFINS taxes and municipal ISS (Service Tax) — would amount to R$5.99 billion, of which R$2.1 billion corresponds to ISS revenue for municipalities.

The taxation of betting under the VAT is still undefined. Online betting may also fall under the scope of the Selective Tax (IS), which remains under discussion. Constitutional Amendment 132/23, approved in December last year as part of the tax reform, still awaits regulation in Congress through bill 68/24.

Continue reading.

[traeuthaeou]

TASTY KAKE CAKE OR KAKE 3 1 11 5 OR 11 1 11 5

64.media.tumblr.com

blaze8403

Reblogged

Aug 10, 2020

blaze8403

May 14, 2019

Enoch Pratt Free Mission Statement | Facebook

I find my part time hourly work online at the library online vibing to tunes music or songs maybe to just enhance focus and clear distraction doing my work

www.facebook.com

blaze8403

Aug 10, 2020

Chins town

Close notes

0110

traeuthaeou

blaze8403

Mar 29

Founder Terry.

Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins

Terry Lee Hawkins Jr.

traeuthaeou

ALLAHTREU TREUALLAH TRUE SCRAMBLED LANGUAGEOLOGIST

Founder Terry.

Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins

Terry Lee Hawkins Jr

Blaze

Johns Hopkins Homewood Neighborhood in Baltimore, Maryland The prestigious and sprawling Johns Hopkins University campus in Homewood is home to tree-lined paths, traditional redbrick architecture, and a landmark clock tower. The campus features the Shriver Hall Concert Series and the Baltimore Museum of Art, as well as popular Wyman Park, Wyman Park Dell, and Stony Run Trail. The surrounding area has many taverns and casual eateries popular with students.

Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins is feeling blessed with Terry Lee Hawkins Jr. 3 mins · Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins is feeling blessed with Terry Lee Hawkins Jr. 11 mins · Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins is feeling professional with Terry Lee Hawkins Jr. 1 min · Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins 4 mins · RAVENDOVE Terry Lee Kauffman Hawkins was RavenDove - yin yin / yang RavenDove - yin yin / yang - COLD NUMB AND (LOVIEY DOVIEY) CALCULATED SPELL IT D or L Dove or Love maybe L or D Lover or Dover pythagorean numerology ABC123 Kauffman-Hawkins-Hawk or Hopk -H__kins aw or op and Hopkins signed Booper or just Boop not Book BUT LOKI OR BOOPER SAN with Blaze Pascal. with Terry Lee Hawkins ( male ) @ikigami shinigam HAWKINS HOKINSU/HOKINZU https://www.facebook.com/notes/terry-lee-kauffman-hawkins/bac-formula-racing-f3-series-bac-mission-statement/2296158727310875/ — feeling professional with Terry Lee Hawkins Jr. YES=Y=YES / NO=N=NO

Blaze

India, officially the Republic of India, is a country in South Asia. It is the seventh-largest country by area; the most populous country from June 2023 onwards; and since its independence in 1947, the world's most populous democracy. Wikipedia

Blaze

Johns Hopkins Homewood

Neighborhood in Baltimore, Maryland

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[highskyit]

Best value course to learn Python in Ahmedabad

Python is one of the widely used programming languages with a very easy-to-learn and easy-to-read format. It is known for its versatile nature and useful application in fields like machine learning, Web development, automation, scientific computing and data science. 

Python's simple syntax, compared to other programming languages and robust libraries like NumPy, Pandas and Matplotlib, which are extensively used tools for data analytics, data manipulation and data visualisation in machine learning projects, makes it extremely convenient for learning and utilisation.

Python is also extensively used in web development, automation, and scientific computing. Professionals use Python to conduct complex statistical calculations.

You can simply search for the best Python Courses in Ahmedabad to get started on your journey of learning Python.

Why learns Python?

As of 2025, the demand for Python has only increased, and it is valued in different professions. People skilled in Python are more readily hired by industry giants for projects.

Python was basically designed for readability; it has some effect on mathematics but is mostly similar to English.

Python can work on various different platforms like Windows, MacOS, Linux, and Raspberry Pi. It has a syntax that allows programmers to write any program in fewer lines than some of the other programming languages used. In Python, prototyping can be really quick because codes can be executed as soon as they are written.

Career Opportunities:

Python supports procedural, functional, and object-oriented programming, which makes it the choice of programming language for a number of top global companies. Industry giants such as Instagram, Google, Dropbox, Uber, Spotify and Netflix all extensively hire highly skilled professionals in Python language.

Skilled professionals in Python can get excellent career opportunities as developers, automation engineers, Full stack developers, DevOps engineers, machine learning engineers, front-end developers and data scientists in top global companies.

Prior qualifications to learn Python:

While having experience in writing programs in Basic, Java, and C++ can make it easier to learn Python, it is not strictly needed, as Python is a beginner-friendly programming language with a very easy-to-learn format.

How to start learning Python?

There are many online resources and offline courses for you to start learning Python either yourself or with the help of courses that will guide you and provide live projects to gain real-life work experience. All you need to do is search for Python Programming Classes near me, and you will get a list of all the available courses.

However, the best way to start your Python journey is to find the best Python Certification Courses in Ahmedabad or your city. Having a certification in your list of skills will increase your chances of getting hired quickly. Python can be an excellent tool for you to have in your skill list as a programmer if you aspire to pursue a career as a software engineer or data scientist. It can open different avenues for you to choose from as a career. Highsky IT Solutions provides various certification courses, both offline and online, with various mentorship from industry experts. They also provide various real-time projects to help you gain industry-relevant experience.

[tutoroot]

What are the Types of Real Numbers? 

The concept of real numbers has evolved over centuries. Ancient civilizations like the Greeks and Indians made significant contributions to the development of number systems. The formalization of real numbers, as we know them today, is attributed to mathematicians like Georg Cantor and Karl Weierstrass in the 19th century. 

Types of Real Numbers 

Real numbers can be broadly classified into two categories: 

1. Rational Numbers 

Rational numbers are numbers that can be expressed as a fraction, where both the numerator and denominator are integers, and 1 the denominator is not zero.    

Examples: 1/2, 3/4, -2/5, 0.5, 0.333… (repeating decimal) 

Decimal Form: Terminating or repeating decimals. 

2. Irrational Numbers 

Irrational numbers, on the other hand, cannot be expressed as simple fractions. Their decimal representations neither terminate nor repeat, extending infinitely without any discernible pattern. 

Examples: √2, √3, π (pi), e (Euler’s number) 

Decimal Form: Non-terminating and non-repeating decimals. 

Properties of Real Numbers 

Real numbers possess several fundamental properties: 

Commutative Property: For addition and multiplication, changing the order of the operands does not affect the result. 

Addition: a + b = b + a 

Multiplication: a * b = b * a 

Associative Property: For addition and multiplication, grouping the operands differently does not affect the result. 

Addition: (a + b) + c = a + (b + c) 

Multiplication: (a * b) * c = a * (b * c) 

Distributive Property: Multiplication distributes over addition. 

a * (b + c) = a * b + a * c 

Identity Property: 

Additive Identity: For any real number a, a + 0 = a. 

Multiplicative Identity: For any real number a, a * 1 = a. 

Inverse Property: 

Additive Inverse: For any real number a, there exists an additive inverse -a such that a + (-a) = 0. 

Multiplicative Inverse: For any non-zero real number a, there exists a multiplicative inverse 1/a such that a * (1/a) = 1. 

Real Numbers in the Real World 

Real numbers are ubiquitous in various fields of study and everyday life: 

Mathematics: 

Real numbers are fundamental to algebra, geometry, calculus, and other mathematical disciplines. 

They are used to define functions, solve equations, and analyze mathematical structures. 

2. Science: 

Real numbers are used to measure physical quantities like distance, time, mass, and temperature. 

They are essential in fields like physics, chemistry, and biology. 

3. Engineering: 

Engineers rely on real numbers to design and analyze structures, circuits, and systems. 

They are used in calculations involving force, stress, strain, and other engineering parameters. 

4. Economics: 

Real numbers are used to model economic phenomena, such as inflation, interest rates, and GDP. 

They are essential in financial analysis, investment decisions, and economic forecasting. 

5. Computer Science: 

Real numbers are used in numerical computations, computer graphics, and artificial intelligence. 

They are fundamental to algorithms and data structures. 

Real numbers are a cornerstone of mathematics and science, enabling us to quantify and analyze the world around us. By understanding the properties and applications of real numbers, we can unlock the power of mathematical reasoning and solve complex problems. Online maths tuition can help you grasp fundamental concepts from simple arithmetic to complex calculus. For personalised guidance and expert tutoring, please feel free to contact Tutoroot. They offer one-on-one tutoring sessions tailored to your specific needs, helping you easily grasp complex concepts. 

[lavenderdropp]

Hello! Thank you for tagging me!

I’m Sanchi and I brought some pies!

@echantedtoon You’ve been my friend since last year and I’m grateful for it. You’ve been very supportive and sweet and i loved collaborating with you and sharing my silly ideas with you. Your books and writing have been my comfort readings💕 AND YOUR PETS ARE SO CUTIE BEAWARE I MIGHT KIDNAP EM ALL! Thank you for being an amazing friend! ❤️❤️💕🦋

@plushkokushibo6 We’ve been friends for quite some time now too and you are literally so sweet! ❤️❤️ I loved your posts or simply having a convo with you. I know recently i have not been much online, I apologise but I’m having exams and had some functions to attend too. I’d love to spend some more time with you! Thank you for being my friend!💕❤️💕

@supernovacoffeestop You match my vibe and I’m glad we are friends! If I get to meet you I would not hesitate to! You are sweet and I love when we talk like the long lost friends! And I’ve simply loved reading your writings and your ART IS SO EDIBLE GURLLLLLLLLL- And you are genuinely very interesting and cool! I hope we can spend more time together! Thank you for being my friend!😭💕💕❤️❤️

@six-eyed-samurai We haven’t interacted much at the beginning, I agree but I enjoy when you tag me in these mini games they always bring a smile to my face and light up my day. AND MAN IVE SEEN YOUE ART TOO IN SOME OF YOUR POSTS AND ITS LITERALLY SO GOOD OMG AAAEEEE🫠🫠🫠— you seem like a very cool and awesome person! I hope we interact more! Thank you for being my friend!💕💕💕

@gilded-sunrays I’m glad I interacted with your posts and got to interact with you too! YOU ARE SO SMART! ITS LITERALLY SO IMPRESSIVE WHEN YOU CALCULATE THOSE POSSIBILITIES, EQUATIONS AND THEORIES! And your writing is very good! Thank you for taking my silly requests! You seem like a very kind person and I hope we interact more ! Thank you for being my friend!💕💕💕❤️❤️

Happy Mootsgiving, everyone!

So, technically, I know Thanksgiving is an American holiday… history… yadda yadda. However, this is not Thanksgiving.

This is Mootsgiving, and what I say goes ‘cause this is my holiday. Anyway! Mootsgiving is all the basic ideas of Thankgiving but better because I’m great like that.

I just wanted to show everyone how grateful I am, since gratefulness is a key principle of Thanksgiving.

I want all my moots from different countries to be able to have the picture-perfect movie-esque Thanksgiving of being surrounded by friends and family with all the care and love and gratefulness that can be poured into a single human. And, as the ever-dramatic Runar, what better way to do that than to organize a huge event?

So! Rules!

State what food you brought

State one thing you’re thankful for

My name is Runar, I brought the eggnog, and I’m grateful for each and every one of you 💗🫶

Really sappy and really long paragraph/speech under the cut!!

Soooo… to start off my big long speech… *clinks my fancy wine glass that’s filled with a mysterious substance* (It’s eggnog)

When I first started this blog, it was off a whim. I wanted to do something, something that involved putting my work out there, as I was just starting out. I wanted to mean something. In any sort of way, I wanted to leave a sort of mark. Not just any mark, though, no. I wanted to add a bit of joy, a spark of life that comes from creativity, and adding words and love into the space we occupy on this floating rock in space.

I wanted to write because it made me happy, and I wanted there to be a possibility of someone who was who got joy from reading to maybe stumble upon it, and get joy from me. Get joy from something I was able to provide for them.

I was also incredibly lonely. I had no friends, I had nothing, pretty much. I didn’t talk much. I was reclusive. I was okay, but I was empty. I didn’t have a purpose. And while I wasn’t expecting much, nothing at all really, I was overjoyed at the prospect that maybe just one person would stumble upon something I wrote and for a moment of their day, maybe they got peace from it.

Maybe they felt a little less lonely. I would have been at peace with just knowing the possibility of it was out there. And then… it did. And I got more than I bargained for, even, I got a friend. My first friend.

From there, everything… clicked. Slowly, but ever so surely, things were falling into place. I was gaining something that had not even crossed my mind. A family.

So, my silly dream born from a whim became friends, connections, and family, it became life-altering. It had ups, it had downs, it had in-betweens. It was beautiful and messy and happy and sad and fucked up and so wonderfully… human?

Yeah, this is online, this is a silly mootsgiving idea I thought up three hours ago because I wanted people to know I love them.

But to someone who had nothing, this is everything. You are everything.

Even if we’ve only talked one time, you have a special place in my heart. The character growth has been… one hell of a ride. I’ve gone through many eras, and made new friends in each and every one of them. So, with the end of the year closing soon, I suppose in a way this is not just a silly mootsgiving.

My bigger end goal, really, was to make sure as we get to the end of this ear, you know how genuinely important this whole year has been to me. How important you have been. I got an anon ask,

What does it feel like to be wanted?

It was beautiful poetry. I replied, said I wouldn’t know what it feels like to be wanted. But really? I think maybe I do. I think it feels like having enough people that you love to organize and invite everyone to a huge event online, to write out this heartfelt paragraph and trust that at least one person will care enough to read it.

My beginning goal has changed so much, and not at all. My biggest purpose in life has been, and I think will always be, to add something into this world.

Creativity, joy, happiness, compassion, I want to ensure that no matter what, as long as you know me, you know you have one person on this earth who loves and cares about you with as much feeling that can physically be felt by one person without exploding into a bunch of tiny little runar pieces.

But moreso, I think maybe my goal has changed from wanting to put stories out there, to putting myself out there. I don’t want to write stories that are just fiction, just crafted ideas meshed together to create a blob of fiction.

I want to write pieces of myself into everything, which i think might genuinely be impossible to not do. I want my heart to pour out of my fingers into the things i type out for you, and i want to not only feel things, but to maybe make you feel something too. Something warm and fuzzy, something good, as good as you deserve.

Aaaaannnd…. to end this….

I love you guys, thanks for being here <3

@marauding-almond @percyweasleyapologist @yesiamprocrastinating @dieatthealtar-deactivated @caramel-covered-apples @thatoneslytherinnerd @thatoneslytherinnerd2

@hedgehog-troops@circe-butbetter @stars-on-my-bedroom-ceiling @l1ve-l4ugh-lov3craft @aidens-ocean-galaxy@rainystarsx@liggy-not-potter @goformoony@i-still-got-love-for-you @definitionoffuckup@mairon-goth-minion

@weewooooweew @residentdisaster @matty-os-blog @starkissed-mars @printershorts @the1970sdeadgaywizard-regulus @lesbian-disaster-tm @star-dust-shark @enbysiriusblack @sadnappo @kawaiibarty @hershey-not-the-chocolate-maybe

@jamespotterbbg @scrumblewonk @seekmemystar @rins-batcave @utterqueerdisasterthesimp @gasolinehornet @asters-tempo @here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can @permetutotheworld @theprongspotter @sotiredimbored @yourlocalbadgerscales @raeprise @burgundykicks @whydousernamesevenexist @jaydove-writes @the-stars-drowning @inara-tries-to-survive @saturnsconstellation @royallygray

[aanandh]

How to Learn Embedded Systems: A Comprehensive Guide

Embedded systems are integral to countless applications, from consumer electronics to industrial automation. Understanding how to learn embedded systems can open up a world of opportunities in various fields, including robotics, automotive, healthcare, and IoT. Here’s a structured approach to mastering embedded systems.

1. Understanding the Basics

Start with the fundamentals of embedded systems. Familiarize yourself with key concepts such as:

What are Embedded Systems?

Embedded systems are specialized computing systems that perform dedicated functions within larger mechanical or electrical systems. Unlike general-purpose computers, they are designed to execute specific tasks with high reliability.

Components of Embedded Systems:

Microcontrollers and Microprocessors: Understand the difference between the two. Microcontrollers are compact integrated circuits designed to govern a specific operation in an embedded system, while microprocessors are the central unit of a computer that performs calculations and logic operations.

Memory: Learn about different types of memory (RAM, ROM, Flash) used in embedded systems.

Input/Output Devices: Familiarize yourself with sensors, actuators, and communication interfaces (UART, SPI, I2C).

2. Choose Your Learning Resources

Select resources that match your learning style. Here are some options:

Books:

"Embedded Systems: Introduction to the MSP432 Microcontroller" by Jonathan Valvano

"Programming Embedded Systems in C and C++" by Michael Barr

Online Courses:

Platforms like Coursera, Udemy, and edX offer courses in embedded systems. Look for those that cover microcontrollers, programming, and interfacing.

YouTube Channels:

Channels like "The DIY Life" and "NPTEL" provide practical insights and tutorials on embedded systems.

3. Get Hands-On Experience

Theory is essential, but hands-on practice is crucial for mastering embedded systems. Consider the following:

Development Boards:

Start with popular development boards like Arduino, Raspberry Pi, or ESP32. These platforms are beginner-friendly and have extensive community support.

Build Projects:

Create simple projects like LED blinkers, temperature sensors, or motor controls. Gradually move to more complex projects like home automation systems or robotic applications.

Use Simulation Tools:

Familiarize yourself with simulation tools like Proteus or MATLAB/Simulink for testing your designs virtually.

4. Learn Programming Languages

Embedded systems often require programming skills. Focus on:

C/C++ Programming:

C is the most commonly used language for embedded systems due to its efficiency and control over hardware. Learn the syntax, data structures, and memory management.

Assembly Language:

Understanding assembly language can provide deeper insights into how microcontrollers operate.

5. Explore Real-Time Operating Systems (RTOS)

Many embedded systems require multitasking and real-time performance. Learning about RTOS concepts can be beneficial:

Understand the Basics:

Familiarize yourself with the concepts of task scheduling, inter-task communication, and resource management.

Hands-On with RTOS:

Try using an RTOS like FreeRTOS or Zephyr on your development board. Implement multitasking projects to get practical experience.

6. Join Online Communities

Engaging with fellow learners and professionals can enhance your learning experience:

Forums and Discussion Groups:

Platforms like Stack Overflow, Reddit, and specialized forums (e.g., Embedded Related) are great for seeking help and sharing knowledge.

Attend Workshops and Webinars:

Participate in online workshops or local meetups to learn from experts and network with peers.

7. Stay Updated with Industry Trends

The field of embedded systems is constantly evolving. Keep yourself updated with the latest trends and technologies:

Follow Industry News:

Subscribe to blogs, newsletters, and magazines related to embedded systems.

Participate in Hackathons:

Engage in hackathons or coding competitions focused on embedded systems to test your skills and learn from others.

Conclusion

Learning embedded systems requires a mix of theoretical knowledge and practical experience. By following this structured approach—starting from the basics, choosing the right resources, getting hands-on experience, and staying engaged with the community—you can build a strong foundation in embedded systems. Whether you aim to work in robotics, IoT, or automation, mastering embedded systems can significantly enhance your career prospects. Start your journey today, and embrace the exciting world of embedded systems!

[blog2252]

What are the admission requirements and process for ISB&M, Pune’s programs?

1. Eligibility Criteria

Educational Qualification: Candidates must have a bachelor’s degree in any discipline from a recognized university with a minimum of 50% aggregate marks. Students in their final year of graduation can also apply, provided they complete their degree with the required percentage before the commencement of the program.

Entrance Exam Scores: ISB&M accepts scores from various national management entrance exams, such as:

CAT (Common Admission Test)

XAT (Xavier Aptitude Test)

MAT (Management Aptitude Test)

CMAT (Common Management Admission Test)

ATMA (AIMS Test for Management Admissions)

GMAT (Graduate Management Admission Test)

Minimum Score Requirement: While ISB&M does not have a strict cut-off score for these exams, higher scores improve the chances of securing admission, as the competition is intense.

2. Application Process

Online Application: Interested candidates can fill out the application form online through the ISB&M Pune official website. They need to provide personal details, academic records, and entrance exam scores, as well as upload necessary documents.

Application Fee: Candidates must pay a non-refundable application fee as part of the application process. This fee can typically be paid online via net banking, credit/debit card, or other available methods.

Document Submission: Along with the application form, candidates must upload scanned copies of important documents such as:

Academic transcripts (for both completed and ongoing studies)

Entrance exam scorecards

Identification proof (Aadhar card, passport, etc.)

Passport-sized photograph

3. Selection Process

Shortlisting: ISB&M reviews applications based on the candidates’ entrance exam scores, academic records, and other relevant factors. Shortlisted candidates are then invited for the next stages of the selection process.

Group Discussion (GD): Shortlisted candidates participate in a Group Discussion, where they discuss a topic chosen by the panel. This process evaluates a candidate's communication skills, teamwork, leadership potential, and ability to articulate ideas.

Personal Interview (PI): After the GD, candidates attend a Personal Interview, where they are assessed on various factors, including:

Academic background and achievements

Work experience (if applicable)

Leadership potential

Communication skills

Motivation and fit for the program

Written Ability Test (WAT) (if applicable): ISB&M may conduct a WAT, where candidates are asked to write an essay on a given topic to evaluate their written communication skills, analytical thinking, and creativity.

4. Final Selection and Admission Offer

Comprehensive Evaluation: ISB&M considers the overall performance of each candidate, including entrance exam scores, GD/PI performance, academic background, and work experience. The final selection is based on a composite score calculated using these factors.

Offer Letter: Selected candidates receive an admission offer letter from ISB&M. This letter contains details about the program, fee structure, and deadlines for accepting the offer.

Acceptance of Offer and Fee Payment: Candidates must accept the offer by paying the required admission fee within the stipulated time frame. This confirms their seat in the program.

5. Preparatory Steps for Enrolled Students

Document Verification: Once admitted, candidates must submit original documents for verification before the academic session begins.

Pre-Orientation and Induction: ISB&M conducts an induction program for new students to help them acclimate to the campus, understand the program structure, and meet faculty and fellow students.

6. Important Dates and Deadlines

Application Deadlines: ISB&M has multiple rounds of admissions, so candidates are encouraged to apply early. Specific deadlines for applications, GD/PI dates, and offer acceptance deadlines are available on ISB&M’s official website.

[shraddhamatre]

Crack the IOCL Exam: An All-Inclusive Success Guide

One of the biggest and most prominent Public Sector Undertakings (PSUs) in India, Indian Oil Corporation Limited (IOCL), provides engineers with outstanding employment possibilities. The IOCL test is the first step toward employment with IOCL for recent engineering graduates. But passing this difficult test calls for careful planning, commitment, and a calculated strategy. This blog offers candidates with exclusive insights to help them succeed by outlining the essential components of the IOCL test.

An outline of the IOCL test GATE (Graduate Aptitude Test in Engineering) results are used by IOCL to select engineers. Shortlisted candidates move on to subsequent rounds of selection, which include group discussions (GD), group tasks (GT), and personal interviews (PI), if they pass the GATE and match the IOCL cutoff requirements. The most in-demand individuals are engineers with backgrounds in mechanical, civil, electrical, and chemical engineering. To be eligible for an interview call from IOCL, candidates must pass the GATE test, which is the first stage in the recruiting process.

Unusual Perspectives on IOCL Recruitment 

1. Extremely Competitive GATE Score: In contrast to other PSUs, the IOCL has a rather high GATE cut-off. For instance, in 2023, the cut-off for Mechanical Engineering was roughly 85-90 points out of 100. Thus, the only candidates who will be considered for IOCL employment are those who receive the highest GATE scores. Consequently, your first priority should be doing well on the GATE.

2. Diverse Selection Process: IOCL places a strong emphasis on communication, leadership, and decision-making capabilities in addition to academic knowledge. The purpose of the Group Discussion and Group Task rounds is to evaluate these soft skills, which are essential in developing the organization's future leaders.

3.Interview Focus Areas: During the in-person interview phase, IOCL normally evaluates a candidate's technical proficiency, familiarity with current events, and commitment to the organization's core values—innovation, sustainability, and integrity. Getting ready on these fronts will increase your likelihood of passing the interview phase.

4. Intense Competition: Thousands of applicants with strong GATE results seek for IOCL positions every year. The intense competition in 2023 was reflected in the fact that over 3,000 applicants were shortlisted for just 100–150 places. Possessing outstanding interpersonal skills in addition to a great GATE score is essential for standing out.

Some Advice to Help You Pass the IOCL Exam in GATE A solid GATE preparation plan is essential as the IOCL hiring process begins with this test. To improve speed and accuracy, concentrate on core subjects, practice frequently, and take practice exams. The GATE papers from other years will also provide insight on the kinds of questions that are frequently asked. Gain Soft Skills: You can only go so far with your technical knowledge. Focus on enhancing your collaboration, communication, and decision-making abilities if you want to do well in the GD and GT rounds. Engage in peer-led group discussions and keep abreast of national and industry developments.

Recognize IOCL: Be aware of IOCL's background, principles, and contributions to the energy and oil industries. It's important to stay up to date with IOCL's initiatives and policies before attending the interview because the firm is a pioneer in implementing green energy practices and technological innovation. Time management: A well-structured study schedule is necessary to manage GATE preparation with other rounds of selection. Set aside time each day for practice, review, and taking online courses or seminars to improve soft skills. fake Interviews: To obtain a sense of what real IOCL interviews are like, practice fake interviews. You will stand out if you work on your body language, confidence, and ability to respond succinctly.

In summary Because of IOCL's esteemed reputation and excellent career prospects, landing a position there is the goal of many recent engineering graduates. Even if there is a lot of competition, your chances of success can be greatly increased by developing a well-rounded preparation plan that emphasizes GATE proficiency and soft skill improvement. It is possible to pass the IOCL test and get into one of the biggest PSUs in India with the correct preparation and amount of work.

Start Your Preparation With: https://gameacademy.in/ / https://clppenny.page.link/cTBm

Recommended: https://www.youtube.com/@gblions / https://www.youtube.com/@gblionsaeje 

[cizmedamapiele121]

Avantajele oferite de o pereche skechers dama

Pentru a descoperi cele mai bune oferte pentru ghete piele baieti este indicat sa iei in calcul varianta online de achizitionare. Aici vei descoperi multe magazine online ce propun oferte avantajoase pentru aceste produse si poti opta pentru cea mai porivita pereche de ghete. Este indicat sa ai in vedere toate aspectele importante in ceea ce priveste selectia si vei gasi astfel, exact ce iti doresti. De asemenea, o forma prea rigida a pantofilor pe care ii vei alege, va determina o incordarea si un disconfort substantial al picioarelor, iar una prea flexibila nu reuseste sa acopere in intregime rolul unui pantof. Trebuie sa ai in vedere toate aceste caracteristici pentru a te asigura de faptul ca decizia luata in momentul achizitionarii unor pantofi este cea mai potrivita si te vei bucura pe deplin de acestia. Cu siguranta vei aprecia pe deplin tot ce iti ofera o pereche de pantofi in cazul in care ii vei achizitiona tinand cont de toate aceste criterii. Acum este mult mai simplu sa gasesti exact ceea ce iti doresti in momentul achizitionarii, iar colaborarea cu un magazin online iti poate oferi cea mai potrivita pereche de pantofi.

Cum poti alege incaltamintea perfecta

Încălţămintea pentru copii trebuie sa fie dotată cu fixaţii (şireturi, cureluşe, fermoare etc.) comode şi sigure care să nu incomodeze mişcările. Încălţămintea deschisă şi fără fixaţii nu se admite pentru preşcolari, deoarece ea oboseşte muşchii şi dereglează circulaţia sangvină. Ti s-a intamplat sa porti pantofi cu un numar mai mare sau un numar mai mic decat cel potrivit doar pentru aspectul acestora? Atunci, iti recomandam sa te informezi despre efectele negative ale purtarii unei marimi la incaltaminte neadecvate. Daca serviciul iti solicita sa stai mult in picioare, sau daca petreci mult timp intr-o zi mergand, bataturile sunt predispuse sa apara. Desi sunt comune, acestea trebuie tratate din timp. Insa purtarea unei marimi incaltaminte neadecvata va inrautatii situatia bataturilor.

Deși mulți părinți preferă să le cumpere copiilor lor încălțăminte încă de când sunt micuți și nu merg de sine stătător, în acea perioadă încălțările nu reprezintă o necesitate. Ba din contra, specialiștii recomandă să-i lăsăm pe micuți cu picioarele goale sau în ciorăpei pentru ca aceștia să se miște liber. Dacă e frig, îl poți încălța în șosete mai groase. Unii părinți aleg să măsoare piciorușul celui mic, când copilul stă așezat sau culcat, fără să țină cont de faptul că sub presiunea greutății corpului, picioruşele se pot alungi cu până la un centimetru. Probabil știi că în alegerea încălțămintei nu contează numai lungimea, ci și lățimea. Exact ca şi numerele de la pantofi, există un sistem de măsurare şi a lățimii, deşi foarte puțini producători îl aplică. Astfel, la unele mărci (de obicei la cele americane) vei vedea că, pe lângă numărul care indică mărimea, apare şi o literă (de la D la H) care indică lățimea.

Sfaturi pentru a alege incaltamintea potrivita

Evita să măsori lungimea piciorului dimineața și nu proba încălțăminte în această parte a zilei. Poți face acest lucru după-amiaza sau seara, atunci când dimensiunea va fi mai precisă, iar picioarele se umflă puțin, în special vara. Aceste sfaturi îți pot veni în ajutor atunci când vrei să alegi mărimea potrivită la pantofii pe care să-i porți indiferent de sezon sau de activitate. Alegerea corectă a încălţămintei după mărimea piciorului (piciorul nu trebuie sa stea strâns în încălţăminte).

Optiuni avantajoase de achizitionare a unor skechers barbati

La plasarea încălţămintei pe o suprafaţă orizontală tocul trebuie să se sprijine pe ea cu întreaga suprafaţă de mers, ceea ce vorbeşte despre amplasarea corectă a acestuia în corespundere cu înălţimea ridicării călcâiului la încălţăminte. Folosirea încălţămintei foarte mici, îndeosebi a celei sportive şi a celei împletite, destinată pentru folosirea zilnică pe suprafeţe tari (asfalt, beton etc.) poate fi cauza apariţiei unui picior plat. Tocul la încălţămintea pentru copii este obligatoriu, deoarece el artificial ridică bolta piciorului, apărând talpa piciorului de lovituri şi totodată măreşte rezistenţa încălţămintei la uzură.

Cauti oferte pentru ghete dama piele?

Daca ne dorim un model cat mai deosebit, putem opta pentru pantofi la comanda. Acestia vor arata asa cum ne dorim, cum i-am visat , ni se vor potrivi de minune si nici nu riscam sa ne intalnim cu alta persoana care are acelasi pantof. Bugetul este cel care dicteaza si tocmai de aceea trebuie sa facem alegeri inteligente si potrivite stilului nostru. Gulerele gleznei reprezinta zona pantofului care se invarte in jurul gleznei. Acestea sunt importante deoarece ofera un plus de suport pentru glezna si totodata impiedica formarea ranilor.

Cele mai protrivite materiale atât pentru adulți, cât și pentru copii, rămân a fi cele naturale: piele sau diferite fribre, care vor lăsa piciorul să respire. Fi atentă, totodată, la greutatea încălțămintei. Alege o pereche de pantofi cât mai ușori. Pantofii ar trebui să fie ceva mai înalți, adică puțin pe gleznă, mai ales în cazul copiilor mici, sub 18 luni. Dar, atenție, fără să fie rigizi. Ideea nu este ca încălțămintea să-i țină copilului piciorul fix, ca într-un clăpar, ci doar să nu-i cadă din picioruşe. De regulă, pe timpul verii, datorită căldurii și a consumului crescut de lichide, picioarele pot fi ușor umflate, ia în considerare acest lucru când alegi perechea de pantofi online, din moment ce nu îi poți proba.

[globalgrowthinsights]

Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant Market Developments, Trends & Opportunities till 2032

Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant Market provides in-depth analysis of the market state of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant manufacturers, including best facts and figures, overview, definition, SWOT analysis, expert opinions, and the most current global developments. The research also calculates market size, price, revenue, cost structure, gross margin, sales, and market share, as well as forecasts and growth rates. The report assists in determining the revenue earned by the selling of this report and technology across different application areas.

Geographically, this report is segmented into several key regions, with sales, revenue, market share and growth Rate of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant in these regions till the forecast period

North America

Middle East and Africa

Asia-Pacific

South America

Europe

Key Attentions of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant Market Report:

The report offers a comprehensive and broad perspective on the global Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant Market.

The market statistics represented in different Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant segments offers complete industry picture.

Market growth drivers, challenges affecting the development of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant are analyzed in detail.

The report will help in the analysis of major competitive market scenario, market dynamics of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant.

Major stakeholders, key companies Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant, investment feasibility and new market entrants study is offered.

Development scope of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant in each market segment is covered in this report. The macro and micro-economic factors affecting the Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant Market

Advancement is elaborated in this report. The upstream and downstream components of Fast Food and Quick Service Restaurant and a comprehensive value chain are explained.

Browse More Details On This Report at @https://www.globalgrowthinsights.com/market-reports/fast-food-and-quick-service-restaurant-market-100554

 Global Growth Insights

Web: https://www.globalgrowthinsights.com

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[learningcenter]

How to Understand PSLE Maths Volume Calculations?

Understanding volume calculations in PSLE Maths is crucial for students aiming to excel in their exams. Volume problems test not only mathematical skills but also spatial reasoning and problem-solving abilities. In this blog, we will delve into strategies and tips to help students grasp volume calculations effectively, focusing on Singapore Maths principles in the introduction to set the stage.

Introduction to Volume Calculations in PSLE Maths

Volume calculations are a significant part of the PSLE Maths syllabus in Singapore. These problems often require students to apply their understanding of geometric shapes, measurement units, and mathematical formulas. The Singapore Maths approach emphasizes a deep understanding of concepts through problem-solving and critical thinking, making it an ideal framework for tackling volume calculations.

1. Understanding the Basics of Volume

Before diving into complex problems, students need to understand the basics of volume. Volume is the amount of space occupied by a 3-dimensional object, measured in cubic units. For example, the volume of a cube can be calculated using the formula:

Volume=Side3\text{Volume} = \text{Side}^3Volume=Side3

This fundamental concept forms the foundation for solving more complex volume problems.

2. Familiarizing with Common Volume Formulas

Different shapes have different volume formulas. Here are some common ones that students should memorize and understand:

Cube: V=a3V = a^3V=a3 (where aaa is the side length)

Rectangular Prism (Cuboid): V=l×w×hV = l \times w \times hV=l×w×h (where lll is length, www is width, and hhh is height)

Cylinder: V=πr2hV = \pi r^2 hV=πr2h (where rrr is the radius and hhh is the height)

Sphere: V=43πr3V = \frac{4}{3} \pi r^3V=34​πr3 (where rrr is the radius)

Understanding these formulas is essential for solving volume-related questions effectively.

3. Visualizing 3D Shapes

Visualization plays a critical role in understanding volume. Students should practice drawing and visualizing 3D shapes. This helps in understanding how the formulas are derived and applied. For example, when calculating the volume of a cylinder, students should visualize how the circular base extends through the height of the cylinder.

4. Breaking Down Complex Problems

Volume questions in the PSLE can sometimes involve composite shapes. In such cases, students should break down the problem into simpler parts. For instance, if a question involves a shape made up of a cylinder and a rectangular prism, calculate the volume of each shape separately and then add them together.

5. Units of Measurement

One common mistake in volume calculations is neglecting the units of measurement. Students should always pay attention to the units given in the problem and ensure their final answer is in cubic units (e.g., cubic centimeters, cubic meters). Converting between different units might be necessary, and students should be comfortable with these conversions.

6. Applying Real-World Examples

Applying volume calculations to real-world scenarios can make learning more engaging and practical. For example, calculating the volume of a swimming pool or a storage box helps students see the relevance of what they are learning. Teachers and parents can create such practical problems to enhance understanding.

7. Practice, Practice, Practice

Practice is key to mastering volume calculations. Working through a variety of problems helps reinforce concepts and improve problem-solving skills. Students should use past year PSLE papers, worksheets, and online resources to practice regularly.

8. Using Visual Aids and Manipulatives

Visual aids and manipulatives can greatly assist in understanding volume. Tools like building blocks, 3D models, and interactive software allow students to manipulate shapes and see the effects of changes in dimensions on volume.

9. Understanding the Concept of Displacement

The concept of displacement can also help in understanding volume. For example, if an object is submerged in water, the volume of water displaced is equal to the volume of the object. This principle can be demonstrated through simple experiments at home or in the classroom.

10. Seeking Help When Needed

Lastly, if students are struggling with volume calculations, seeking help is important. This could be from teachers, tutors, or online resources. In Singapore, many tuition centers and online platforms offer specialized coaching in Maths. Utilizing these resources can provide personalized guidance and support.

Conclusion

Mastering volume calculations in PSLE Maths requires a solid understanding of basic concepts, familiarity with formulas, and plenty of practice. The Singapore Maths approach, with its emphasis on problem-solving and critical thinking, provides an excellent framework for tackling these problems. By breaking down complex problems, visualizing shapes, and applying real-world examples, students can enhance their understanding and confidence in handling volume calculations. Remember, consistent practice and seeking help when needed are key strategies for success in PSLE Maths.

By focusing on these strategies and leveraging the principles of Singapore Maths, students can navigate the challenges of volume calculations and excel in their PSLE exams.

[anuj1985]

Why Digital Marketing Trainers is the new advancing calling

In the steadily developing scene of computerized showcasing, the mission for greatness is tenacious. In the midst of this unique space, the job of a Digital Marketing Trainers becomes significant. These mentors are the torchbearers who enlighten the way for hopeful advertisers and old pros the same, directing them through the complexities of computerized showcasing techniques. Today, we dig into the quintessence of what makes a computerized showcasing coach genuinely the most incredible in the field.

The Signs of Greatness

A quintessential Digital Marketing Trainers encapsulates a mix of involvement, skill, and the capacity to convey complex ideas with clearness. They are teachers as well as industry veterans who have faced the hardships of changing calculations and moving patterns. Their lessons are not restricted to hypothetical information; they are advanced with true applications and contextual analyses that reverberate with the items of common sense of the promoting scene.

Experience and Aptitude: The Twin Points of support

The best computerized promoting coaches have a celebrated history of victories and learnings. They offer that might be of some value long stretches of active involvement with overseeing efforts, interpreting investigation, and driving changes. Their mastery isn't simply restricted to one part of advanced advertising; they are knowledgeable across the range, be it Web optimization, online entertainment showcasing, email promoting, or content system.

Educating Style: Drawing in and Engaging

An outstanding coach realizes that commitment is the way to learning. They utilize intelligent showing strategies, support questions, and encourage a cooperative learning climate. Their meetings are a blend of talks, studios, and live tasks, guaranteeing that students experience genuine showcasing challenges. They engage their understudies with the instruments and certainty to try, develop, and succeed.

Audits and Tributes: The Voice of Trust

The standing of a Digital Marketing Trainers is much of the time reflected in the surveys and tributes of their understudies. Positive input and examples of overcoming adversity are demonstrations of their capacity to coach and move. Planned students ought to search for mentors who have reliably gotten awards for their commitment to the development and progress of their understudies.

Course Satisfied and Assets: Complete and Current

The educational plan planned by the best mentors is comprehensive and fully informed regarding the most recent industry norms. They give a plenty of assets, including concentrate on materials, recordings, and admittance to showcasing devices. Their courses are organized to construct serious areas of strength for some time additionally giving high level methods and methodologies.

Backing and Mentorship: Past the Study hall

Post-preparing support is a sign of the best computerized showcasing coaches. They offer mentorship, vocation direction, and in some cases, in any event, organizing open doors that can be vital for proficient development. Their obligation to their understudies reaches out past the span of the course, frequently shaping long lasting proficient bonds.

The Best Computerized Showcasing Mentor: An Individual Brand

With regards to individual marking, the expression best digital marketing trainer isn't simply a title; it's an image guarantee. It connotes a promise to greatness and a devotion to sustaining the up and coming age of computerized advertisers. It's tied in with being a pioneer, a trailblazer, and a confided in consultant in the computerized showcasing local area.

Conclusion 

The journey to becoming the best AI and digital marketing trainer is arduous but rewarding. It requires a commitment to persistent learning, an enthusiasm for instructing, and a certified craving to add to the outcome of others. For those hoping to upgrade their computerized showcasing abilities, picking the right coach is a basic step. It very well may be the contrast between a decent advertiser and an extraordinary one.

As we explore the advanced domain, let us look for mentors who educate as well as motivate, train as well as engage. For it is under the direction of the best mentors that we can really open our true capacity and take off higher than ever in the advanced advertising universe.

This article expects to give significant experiences into the characteristics of top computerized promoting coaches and can act as a clever piece for your third party referencing endeavors. Make sure to tailor the substance to line up with your own marking and the remarkable incentive of your site, akram-ali.com.