Banchan

It's a sunny Monday morning, bright and warm—everyone's rushing about. You're running to the bus to get to class on time: dust kicks up from your feet, your bag is slung over your shoulder, your hair is disheveled from running. You're a foreigner who moved to Russia to study; your family supported you and was happy you were coming. The bus will be at the stop in two minutes, and you're still a long way off.

When you reach the bus, you see the doors are already closed and the bus is starting. You run to the window and knock—the driver rolls his eyes, but stops, opening the doors. You rush inside and crash into a guy. Your hair is standing on end, your eyes are wide.

"Hey! Are you blind or something?! Watch where you're going!" snorted the guy in the windbreaker and hat, his dark eyes seeming to pierce right through me.

“F... excuse me... I... I don’t understand Russians...” you say, blushing; there’s an accent in your voice.

• So you're not Russian, then? Clearly, another American.

— I'm not from America...

He frowns at you, but his expression softens when he sees how scared and confused you are.

• Okay, where are you going?

• One hundred?..

— Go, vroom-vroom... Where to?

— I went to duck... I got off at the last stop.

— Are you studying there too? Cool, me too, it's my second year already. I'll show you everything, and if you want, I'll help you learn Russian.

-Mmm?..

—Help learn Russian, okay?

You nod shyly and lean your shoulder against him: your heart tells you that you can trust him.

— My... er... name is Banchan. And you? What's your name?