Episode 22
7 March 2025, Friday. Early afternoon. SNU's chemistry faculty, outside of the student council office.
So-mi caught up with Den as soon as he stepped out.
"Congratulations, Den-ssi," she said flatly. "You just won the 'idiot of the day' nomination."
Den frowned.
"What? I thought we were on the same side on that one."
She cut him off without even looking at him.
"You wish. Do you really think what I said to Su-ho is the same as what I think?"
Den stopped walking.
She turned to face him, shifted her weight onto one hip, and crossed her arms slowly.
"Let me guess," she went on, cool, almost sarcastic. "You're thinking: I did the right thing. I protected a girl."
He didn't answer, restraining himself from making excuses.
So-mi's lips curved—not a smile.
"No. You didn't protect her. You turned a spotlight on her at the exact moment when she felt most vulnerable. That's what you did."
Den blinked.
"I don't understand."
So-mi sighed.
"Of course you don't."
She rolled her eyes and explained, letting her irritation vent.
"If you hadn't started a fight, Jun-gi would already be finished. Public humiliation. Physical assault. Lots of witnesses."
She tilted her head.
"With my connections, he would've been expelled. Quietly. Cleanly."
Den's jaw tightened.
"But instead," she continued, "I have to close my eyes to what he did. So Su-ho can close his eyes to what you did. Now Ha Jun-gi walks away from insulting me with just a couple of bruises and minor reputation loss. And I am furious about it."
She met his gaze directly.
"Is that clear enough, Den-ssi?"
Den exhaled sharply.
"…Yeah. Clear."
So-mi hesitated—just a fraction. Then her voice dropped, less sharp.
"And one more thing."
She looked away, down the corridor.
"Mi-yeon lives like a shadow. That's how she survives. And you behave like a searchlight at night."
She glanced back at him.
"When you point public attention at someone like her, you don't make her visible. You make her vanish completely."
A beat.
"If you were expelled for the fight that happened because of her, people would gossip and judge her so harshly that she'd have to take an academic break—or even transfer out completely. Just so she could get her miserable life back."
Den felt something inside him drop.
"I am… sorry."
She only added coldly, "Like I care. Welcome to Korea."
She adjusted her hair, already done with the conversation.
"I don't have time to babysit your conscience. I've got other students to calm down."
And she walked off.
8 March 2025, Saturday. Morning. Dong Seoul bus terminal.
Mi-yeon took a seat by the window as the bus pulled away from the terminal.
The first week was over.
At last, she was going home—to her village, to see her father and mother, and her little sister, Su-ha.
She pressed her lips together and rested her forehead lightly against the glass, watching the city slide past.
What will I tell them?
They'll ask, "Mi-yeon, how is university? Are you doing well? Do you like it?"
What am I supposed to say?
Her memories began to rewind on their own.
"Good" doesn't really fit, she thought.
But "bad" doesn't either. It's just… not what I expected.
Still—she had made friends.
Han-bin. Min-jae. And Denis…Den.
Her thoughts drifted to that evening bench near the men's dorm, when she had gone to return his shirt.
…We're friends, right?
Mi-yeon lifted a hand and adjusted the elastic in her ponytail.
Yes… probably friends. He never said it out loud, but he can't act like that and feel nothing at all, could he?
He couldn't… right?
She decided that no, he couldn't. A small, quiet smile touched her lips.
A man with zero nunchi…
Can such a man be a good man?
Every time he says or does something, it feels like a catastrophe to me…
She glanced at her reflection in the window.
…in a very safe, caring, illogical way.
She sighed.
If we are friends, should I call him Den oppa? Or just Oppa?
Agh! Because I have called him Den so many times, Den oppa now sounds harder than just Den!
I wonder what Dad would say if he knew I was thinking about a foreigner…
She winced immediately.
No.
I don't even want to think about that.
I'm going home to see my family.
That's all.
Enough worries for one week.
She nodded to herself, as if sealing the decision.
Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her textbook, and opened it with determination. Fully intending to stop thinking silly thoughts and focus on something safe, familiar, and controllable as the bus carried her farther away from Seoul.
8 March 2025, Saturday. Noon. Village Gotan-ri near Chuncheon, little hillside street off Chunhwa-ro, Mi-yeon's family home.
In just over an hour, Mi-yeon stepped off the bus and started up the gentle slope from the stop toward home, walking along the narrow village path she had known since childhood.
Rural sounds—dogs barking somewhere far off, wind in the grass, the distant hum of the highway—blended together into a familiar, comforting background.
Home.
She reached the gate. Standing on her toes, she stretched to slide the latch from the inside and stepped into the yard.
It wasn't a wealthy household, but it was clean and well cared for—just as always. Her mother still tended it lovingly, planting flowers every year, making sure the yard never lost its quiet dignity.
Mi-yeon paused for a second at the threshold and let out a soft breath.
Then she finally went inside.
Her little sister saw her first.
Su-ha froze for half a second—torn between running to call their mother and running straight to Mi-yeon—then started darting back and forth in excitement.
"Mom! Mom! Mi-yeon is here! Mi-yeon came home!"
She made her decision in an instant, ran forward, and jumped into Mi-yeon's arms, wrapping her legs tightly around her waist.
"Unni! You're here! I missed you so much!"
Mi-yeon laughed softly, holding her steady.
Their mother came out from the kitchen—a woman in her early forties, with kind, soft features and neatly arranged hair—wiping her hands on her apron as she smiled and opened her arms.
Mi-yeon gently set her sister down and bowed slightly before stepping into the embrace. They held each other for a moment longer than necessary.
"Mom… where's Dad?" Mi-yeon asked.
Her mother immediately switched to a mock-complaining, familiar tone.
"Oh, you know him. He went fishing at the lake early this morning. Says he wants you to eat fresh fish. I told him, 'Why are you going out? We have chicken!' You're coming to see us, not to eat fish. But can you argue with him? Honestly…"
She waved a hand.
"He'll probably catch nothing anyway and spend the whole day sitting around with his friends, drinking beer like I don't know him already. Then he'll just buy fish at the market in the end. But don't worry—he'll be back soon."
Right on cue, the door opened.
A satisfied, slightly tired—and perhaps a little drunk—father stepped inside. Without even looking into the room yet, he kicked off his boots and shouted proudly, "Bo-ra! Bo-ra! Come look how much I caught! I told you today was a lucky day!"
Mi-yeon and her mother exchanged smiles, glancing toward the entrance.
Her mother chuckled. "See? Just talking about him and he appears."
The father finally lifted his head—and froze when he saw his daughter standing there, already moving toward him.
"Oh—Mi-yeon! You're home already!"
She hugged him, and he hugged her back with rough, familiar warmth.
Su-ha stood beside them, clinging to Mi-yeon's arm as if afraid she might disappear again, refusing to let go even for a second.
They ate together in the living room, sitting on the floor around a low wooden table.
Steamed rice filled small metal bowls. There were simple side dishes—seasoned vegetables, kimchi, pickled greens—and in the center, the fish her father had proudly brought home, cleaned and grilled until the skin was crisp and fragrant. Mi-yeon and her mother had prepared it together, moving around each other in the kitchen with the quiet coordination that came from years of habit.
It was warm. Familiar. Safe.
Su-ha ate noisily, happily, already telling stories about school. Their father focused on the fish with deep concentration, eating with the satisfaction of a man who believed effort tasted better when you caught it yourself. Their mother watched everyone, refilling bowls, reminding Su-ha to chew properly.
Conversation drifted naturally to the university.
"So," her father said between bites, not looking up, "how is school?"
Mi-yeon nodded lightly.
"It's… busy. Harder than high school. But I'm doing okay."
"Hm," he grunted, approving enough.
Then he finally looked at her properly.
And froze.
His chopsticks paused midair.
"…Mi-yeon," he said slowly. "Why are your eyes like that?"
Her heart dropped.
In that instant, she realized she had forgotten to wash off the mascara before coming home.
Panic surged through her chest.
"I—I—" she started, throat tight.
Her father frowned, suspicion already rising.
"You're wearing makeup?"
Mi-yeon felt heat rush to her face. She stared down at her rice bowl, unable to speak.
Before the tension could harden, her mother clicked her tongue and intervened, tone half-scolding, half-amused.
"Oh, stop it. Why are you bothering her over nothing? You told her not to wear makeup, and she isn't."
Her father glanced at his wife, confused.
"What?"
She nodded calmly, as if this were perfectly logical.
"She's just protecting her eyelashes from the polluted city air. That's not makeup."
Mi-yeon blinked.
Her mother continued smoothly, then added with a hint of mischief in her eyes:
"And besides, didn't you say that if she ever started seeing a boy, you'd allow it?"
Her chopsticks paused. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Well then—tell us, Mi-yeon. Have you made friends with a boy yet?"
Mi-yeon nearly choked.
She swallowed her bite with difficulty, eyes fixed firmly on her plate.
"I… I'm friends with one classmate," she said quietly. "He's kind. And good. But we're not… dating. We're just friends."
Her father nodded, satisfied, returning to his food.
"Good," he muttered. "Just friends is fine. Stay that way for now. Focus on studying."
Then, casually:
"What's his name?"
Her blood rushed to her ears.
She felt herself turning red, even as she answered in a voice barely louder than a whisper, instinctively reshaping the unfamiliar sounds on her tongue.
"H-His name is… um… Seok…Do-nis."
Her father, still chewing, frowned.
"Seok Do-nim?" He tilted his head. "That's a strange name. Is he Chinese or something? That's the last thing we need."
Mi-yeon wished the floor would open beneath her.
"No, Dad," she said quickly. "He's… definitely not Chinese."
Once again, her mother came to the rescue.
"Oh, enough already, Jung-guk. They ask fewer questions at the North Korean border than you do to your own daughter. Let her eat in peace."
She stood up briskly.
"Alright, that's enough serious talk. Let's have tea and cake. Go on—come help me."
Su-ha giggled loudly.
Mi-yeon smiled too, small and relieved, as her parents went into the kitchen together to prepare tea and cut the cake, the tension dissolving back into the gentle noise of home.
Mi-yeon and Su-ha slept in the same room, just like before.
Only this time, instead of their beds, they had spread thin mattresses, blankets, and pillows directly on the floor.
Because Su-ha had declared—firmly—that she wanted to sleep with her unni.
And if they didn't sleep together on the floor, then she would "just lie right on top of Mi-yeon" on her narrow bed.
So the floor had won.
Mi-yeon lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. Her mind kept circling the past week—faces, voices, moments that refused to settle.
Beside her, Su-ha tried very hard to fall asleep properly. She lay straight, eyes squeezed shut, breathing loudly in what she believed was a convincing imitation of sleep.
It lasted less than a minute.
Curiosity defeated discipline.
She turned toward Mi-yeon, propping her head on one arm and clicking on a tiny flashlight attached to her keychain. The weak beam lit their faces in a soft, slightly ridiculous glow.
"Mi-yeon," she whispered seriously. "You usually fall asleep right away. But now you're just staring at the ceiling. And at dinner you smiled… not like usual. You were weird. Is that because you have a boyfriend?"
Mi-yeon sighed softly.
"Of course not. That's because you talk nonsense all the time, Su-ha," she murmured. "And because, thanks to you, we're sleeping on thin mats on the floor instead of enjoying our soft beds."
Su-ha accepted this without offense.
"Okaaay, I believe you," she said. "If you were lying, Mom would already know. She always knows."
She turned back as if to sleep.
Then, a minute later, the flashlight clicked on again.
"Unni," Su-ha said quietly, "there's a boy in my class. He doesn't do anything bad. But when he's around… I get angry."
She frowned in the dark.
"Why is that?"
Mi-yeon smiled, unseen.
"Well," she said gently, "are… you sure you're angry? Or is it something else? Maybe you're just nervous around him."
Su-ha snorted.
"Don't be ridiculous. Nervous? Pff! Why would I be nervous? I could beat him up if I wanted. And if he ever bothered me, Dad would beat him up! I'm not nervous at all!"
Mi-yeon hummed in agreement, even as the memory of her own trembling hands—near Den—slipped into her chest.
"Of course," she said softly. "How silly of me. There's no reason to feel nervous around a boy who makes you angry."
She exhaled.
Su-ha caught it immediately, the way children did—without logic, just instinct.
"…Are you happy there, Mi-yeon?" she asked. "In the big city?"
The flashlight was off now. They both stared up at the ceiling.
Mi-yeon answered after a pause.
"I'm trying to be. I really am."
Su-ha nodded solemnly.
"Grandma says that's almost the same thing."
Mi-yeon turned onto her side and wrapped an arm around her sister.
"Alright," she whispered. "Sleep now, Su-ha. We have to wake up early tomorrow."
The room grew quiet.
8 March 2025, Saturday. Midnight. SNU, men's dormitory.
The dorm room was quiet.
Min-jae had already fallen asleep, one arm thrown over his face, breathing slow and even. The desk lamp on Den's side cast a small circle of light over an open textbook.
Den was sitting hunched over it, eyes moving across the page without absorbing a single word.
The letters blurred.
He read the same sentence three times.
Nothing stayed.
He closed the book halfway, stared at the edge of the desk for a few seconds, then reached for his phone.
Den hesitated.
Then he pressed the familiar nickname.
The line connected quickly.
"Yo," his friend answered.
"Hi, bud."
"You sound like you crawled out of a grave."
Den exhaled through his nose.
"Thanks, asshole."
A short pause.
"Chill, I'm kidding. You good?"
Den leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.
"I'm drained, dude. I am beating my head against a wall, it seems." he said quietly.
No jokes. No sarcasm.
Just fact.
Silence on the other end.
"I'm trying," Den continued. "I'm trying to be thoughtful. To be respectful. To adjust. I think about every word before I say it. I watch how people react. I try to… I really do."
He let out a dry breath.
"My classmates keep telling me I don't know how to read the air."
A beat.
His friend didn't laugh this time.
"They mean context," he said carefully.
"I know what they mean," Den replied irritably. "I am socially lost, not stupid. I just don't feel it the way they do."
He rubbed his temple.
"Even when I think I'm doing the right thing, it ends up being wrong. Or too direct. Or inappropriate. Or unnecessary."
His jaw tightened.
"My moral compass is out of whack. I don't even know what's right anymore."
Another pause.
"Justice doesn't matter there?" his friend asked.
Den let out a dry laugh.
"Oh, it matters," he said, bitterness threading through his voice.
"It's just… a hell of a lot different from ours."
He stared at the dark window. His reflection looked unfamiliar.
"Rough," his friend muttered.
"Yeah."
A long breath.
"You got yourself a piece of tail, though, right?" his friend tried lightly. "You're not suffering there alone, are you?"
Den's lips curved faintly.
"An upperclassman girl invited me to eat ice cream once," he said.
"That counts?"
"…Not really."
His friend snorted softly.
"Gotta run. Don't overthink it. You'll survive."
"I'm trying."
The conversation ended.
The screen went dark in Den's hand.
He didn't put the phone down immediately.
He stared at his own faint reflection in it.
For a moment, his eyes glistened.
No tears fell.
He swallowed.
"And there," he murmured under his breath, almost without sound, "I'm not one of them anymore."
A pause.
"And here… I'm still not one of them."
He pressed his lips together.
A tight pressure grew in his chest.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand once, firmly.
Then he straightened.
Pulled the textbook back toward him.
Turned the page.
The lamp hummed softly.
Den lowered his eyes to the page and kept studying.