Few things attracted Jackson Wang's attention. 

Not that he was arrogant or anything of that sort — it was just difficult. Impress him wasn't a task that anyone could do.

Even if in the beginning of his studies in Korea he had language barriers and a bit of bullying by a group of boys — as foreign students, mainly Chinese, were bullied by others, Jackson wasn't the kind of person who listened to people saying cruel things quiet or contained his words only because others didn't like him, or where he came from.

Before he knew it, he was popular among the girls because of his good looks and the boys for his courage, determination and for not giving a crap to what people thought about him. This was the Wang way of living, and he'd never change.

Jackson was a typical average teenager of his age. Always changing haircuts, hair styles, colors. Clothes from the latest fashion among students, the last iPhone released in hand, accessories that made him unique.

A talkative person, playful, but a little bit different with those closest friends than his usual self in front of others. Homework done when he felt like doing it — sometimes his laziness dominated him. Sports holic, especially fencing and dancing, everything a rich teenager could have and do in his free time.

Jackson loved music, dancing and stuff — he enjoyed just hip hop or electronic, he knew almost nothing of classical music or how to read these strange notes to play a piano.

There were a time when he was fourteen old that, yes, Jackson had interest in having a garage band, learning how to play guitar, but his impatience didn't let him go through all the steps. He much preferred his old but good basketball.

It's worth, then, highlight how few things could catch the Wang's eyes. Especially when it comes to things that weren't part of his circle of interests.

On this day, Jackson wouldn't know how to explain what went through his mind.

For his luck, one of his teachers didn't attend the school, and apparently left no substitute to complete the class. Students were then released to their break earlier, since much couldn't be done.

The Chinese passed by the hall where the school clubs were. His intention was going to the sports one, pick up his form to attend the next basketball game and get out to the canteen.

His plans were stopped halfway when he saw that one of the clubs was with the door open, as if someone had left in a hurry. He raised his eyebrows, it was rare to see the arts club disorganized — most of the people there were petty, rich and tucked, not to mention perfectionists.

Curious as he was, he cautiously approached the classroom, looking around.

"Someone here...?" he asked in a low tone, as if he really didn't want to have an answer.

Jackson kept entering the class to see that it was empty, seeing that the area was clean and had a quiet air, not getting even close to the mess and confusion that his club was.

He frowned, realizing that no, that wasn't the arts club. First, it was too small for the number of students participating, and it was down the hall if he wasn't mistaken. He got just confused by seeing so many painted canvas and a piano, but a second glance made him realize that it was actually some kind of private room.

"Do we have an artist here?" he laughed to himself, approaching one of the canvas.

Jackson could never understand what was going on in those odd paintings that seemed like everything was brushed randomly, but in that moment, he faced a mix of colors and emotions that told him something.

His hand reached out to touch the frame, sliding his fingertips by the texture, feeling all the anger and frustration that the person who painted it was feeling at the moment.

He pulled away, he was invading this person's personal space and didn't even know why. Sculptures, paintings, classical music — none of this was "his thing", but he was stuck there, as if he needed to explore more.

Decided, since he was there anyway, Jackson wanted to give one last searched around the room, walking through the place with a sudden interest in everything.

In a few steps, he found other canvas he had seen from the outside, a painted face in this one, black and white. It was a beautiful painting, but hadn't been completed — instead, the artist blurred all its end, a huge "I can't" written in red on top, and last week's date.

Jackson thought it was a pity, the picture was actually getting pretty, but there was something that wasn't clicking in his mind. He faced the same painting for long seconds until he realized that whoever was the or artist, this person was trying to... Paint him.

If there was something he never imagined, it was having a secret admirer in the Arts Club — first of all because most of them hated him without really knowing him, but it was mutual, so it didn't matter. Second, this person was able to capture all his good points, and even drew the angle he loved the most, but why didn't she or he continue?

 Before he could continue wondering, Jackson heard footsteps coming towards the room he was in, then he hurried out of it before the owner got there. He got out from the room, looked around and ran wherever he could, hiding in the corner of the beginning of the corridor