Tuesday morning I woke up at 7 AM to the sound of Min-Ji singing off-key in the shower. Some girl group song I didn't recognize, but she was committed to every note regardless of pitch.
I lay in bed for a moment, taking inventory. My body felt different—still tired, but the bone-deep exhaustion had lifted slightly. I'd slept eight hours. Eaten real food yesterday. Taken a full day off.
It wasn't a miracle cure, but it was something.
I dragged myself out of bed and found Yoo-Na already in the kitchen, perfectly put together as always, making coffee and toast.
"Morning," she said, looking up with a smile. "How do you feel?"
"Human. Mostly."
"That's progress." She poured me coffee without asking—knew how I liked it, just a splash of milk. "You have class at 8:30, right?"
"Constitutional Law. Then Legal Research at 1. Library shift 3 to 7."
"And you're eating breakfast before you leave."
It wasn't a question.
She set a plate in front of me—toast, eggs, a sliced apple. Simple but substantial. The kind of breakfast I used to skip because I was always running late, always trying to save money.
"Thank you," I said, and meant it.
Min-Ji emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, her hair wrapped in a towel. "Oh good, you're eating. Yoo-Na, you're a saint."
"I'm practical. Dead roommates don't pay rent."
"Wow, so nurturing."
"I contain multitudes."
I ate while they bickered affectionately about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper, and felt something settle in my chest. This. This was what normal felt like. Friends who cared, breakfast that wasn't rushed, mornings that didn't start with panic.
I could do this. One day at a time.
Constitutional Law II started at 8:30, and I made it to the lecture hall with five minutes to spare. A personal record lately.
The hall was filling up with the usual crowd—gunners in front, elite kids in the middle, scattered scholarship students trying to look invisible. I took my usual seat, third row from the back, and pulled out my laptop.
Professor Kwon swept in exactly on time, her small frame somehow commanding the entire space. She set her briefcase down with precise care and surveyed the room with eyes that missed nothing.
"Good morning. I trust you all completed the reading on administrative law procedure and the standards for judicial review of agency action."
A few confident nods from the front row. Nervous silence from everyone else.
I had done the reading. Barely. Between collapsing on Monday and sleeping most of yesterday, I'd managed to skim the cases last night before bed. Not my best preparation, but better than nothing.
"Let's begin with Chevron v. NRDC," Professor Kwon said, already writing on the board. "The seminal case on judicial deference to agency interpretation. Mr. Park, summarize the holding for us."
Seung-Ho, two rows ahead of me, stood smoothly. "The Court held that when a statute is ambiguous, courts should defer to a federal agency's interpretation as long as it's reasonable. The two-step test asks first whether Congress has directly spoken to the issue, and if not, whether the agency's interpretation is permissible."
"Adequate. Sit." Professor Kwon turned to scan the room. "Ms. Han."
My stomach dropped, but I stood. "Yes, Professor?"
"Why does this doctrine exist? What's the policy rationale for judicial deference?"
I organized my thoughts, pulling from the reading and from class discussions we'd had earlier in the semester. "Agencies have technical expertise that courts lack. They're better positioned to make complex policy judgments in their areas of specialization. Deference also respects the democratic process—agencies are accountable to elected officials, while judges are appointed for life."
"Counterarguments?"
"It risks giving too much power to unelected bureaucrats. Agencies might interpret ambiguous statutes in self-serving ways. And it creates inconsistency—different administrations can adopt different interpretations of the same statute."
Professor Kwon nodded slightly. "Good. The tension between expertise and accountability is fundamental to administrative law. Keep that framework in mind as we move forward. Sit."
I sat, relieved and slightly proud. I'd managed a coherent answer despite everything. Maybe my brain wasn't completely fried.
The rest of class proceeded in typical fashion—Professor Kwon dissecting cases with surgical precision, calling on students seemingly at random, building a complex picture of how courts review agency actions. I took notes frantically, trying to absorb information my exhausted brain had been rejecting for weeks.
Near the end of class, Professor Kwon made an announcement.
"Your midterm papers are due in three weeks. I expect original analysis on a topic of your choice within administrative law. No summaries, no Wikipedia regurgitation. Argument and analysis. If you're struggling with topic selection, see me in office hours."
Three weeks. I pulled up my calendar mentally. Between now and then: work shifts, LEET prep I'd been neglecting, regular assignments. And somehow finding time to write a midterm paper that Professor Kwon wouldn't eviscerate.
I could do this. I had to do this.
As class ended and people started packing up, someone tapped my shoulder.
I turned to find Kang Min-Jae, the guy I'd helped in the library a few weeks ago. He was holding his laptop nervously.
"Hi, Ji-Mang-ssi. Um, you probably don't remember me, but—"
"You needed help finding cases on preliminary injunctions. Min-Jae, right?"
He looked relieved. "Yeah. I wanted to say thanks again for that. It really saved me." He hesitated. "Also, I was wondering... there's a study group forming for the midterm paper. Just a few of us from class. We're meeting Thursday evenings in the library. Would you want to join?"
A study group. With people I didn't know well, which meant social energy I didn't have.
But also: accountability, shared resources, a reason to actually prepare properly.
"Who else is in it?" I asked.
"Me, two other third years, and a second year who's taking the class early. No one intimidating, I promise. Just people trying not to fail."
"When on Thursday?"
"7 PM. Study room 4B."
I was working at the convenience store until 10 that night, but I could probably shift the study group to earlier, or... no. No more overcommitting.
"I work Thursday evenings," I said. "But if you ever move it to a different day or time, let me know? I'd be interested."
"Oh. Yeah, sure. I'll text you if we change it." He pulled out his phone. "Can I get your number?"
We exchanged contact info, and he left looking pleased. I gathered my things slowly, thinking about study groups and social connections and all the parts of college life I'd been neglecting while working myself to death.
Maybe I could make some of those connections now. If I tried.
I had three hours between classes, so I headed to the library—not to work, just to study. Found my usual alcove on the third floor, spread out my materials, and tried to figure out a midterm paper topic.
Administrative law was interesting in theory but dense in practice. I needed something specific enough to analyze deeply but broad enough to find sources.
I was reading through potential topics when my phone buzzed.
Mom: Good news! Your father got a callback from the Busan company. Second interview next Wednesday. 🙏
Relief flooded through me.
Me: That's amazing! Sending good luck. He's going to do great.
Mom: We hope so. How are you? Feeling better?
Me: Much better. Getting back to normal.
Me: Tell Dad I'm proud of him.
Mom: I will. Love you, sweetheart.
Me: Love you too.
I set my phone down and let myself feel it. Hope. Real, tangible hope that this nightmare might actually end soon. That my father might get this job, my family might stabilize, and I might get my life back.
Not immediately. Not without more struggle. But eventually.
I could survive eventually.
I worked on paper topics for another hour, made some notes, and was researching cases when someone slid into the chair across from me.
I looked up, half expecting Seung-Ho with some new asshole comment.
It was Bok-Jin.
My heart did that stupid jumping thing it always did when I saw him.
"Hi," he said quietly. "Sorry. I know you're studying. I just... I saw you and wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I'm okay. Better."
"Good. That's good." He fidgeted with his laptop bag. "I won't bother you. I just wanted to check."
"You're not bothering me."
We looked at each other for a moment, and I saw all the things we weren't saying. The hurt, the longing, the impossible situation we'd created.
"How have you been?" I asked, because someone needed to break the silence.
"Okay. Busy. Business strategy project is killing me, and my family's been..." He trailed off. "It doesn't matter. How's your day been?"
"Good, actually. Class went well. My dad has a second interview for a job. Things are... looking up."
"That's great. Really great." He smiled, and it was genuine even though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm glad."
Another pause. This was so awkward. We used to be able to talk for hours, and now we could barely string together a conversation.
"I should let you study," he said, starting to stand.
"Bok-Jin."
He paused.
"Thank you. For yesterday. For the text. For not... for just being kind about everything."
"Of course. I meant what I said. I'm here if you need anything."
"I know. That helps more than you probably realize."
He nodded, shouldered his bag, and left.
I watched him go and tried to ignore the ache in my chest.
One day at a time. I could handle one day at a time.
Legal Research at 1 PM was a smaller class, more practical than theoretical. Professor Lee had us working on a mock research assignment—finding cases to support a hypothetical legal argument.
I partnered with a girl named Hye-Ri who I'd worked with before. She was quiet, efficient, good at finding relevant cases without a lot of unnecessary chatter.
"You look better than last week," she commented while we worked. "You seemed really stressed."
"I was. Am. But I'm managing better now."
"Good. You scared some of us. You're usually so put together."
I laughed at that. "I'm really not. I'm just good at pretending."
"Aren't we all?"
We found our cases, compiled our research memo, and by the time class ended at 2:45, I felt accomplished. Like I was actually learning something instead of just surviving.
My library shift started at 3, and Ji-Won greeted me with obvious relief.
"You're back! I was worried when you called in sick. You never call in sick."
"Yeah, I just needed a day. I'm fine now."
"Good. Because we're swamped." She gestured to the line of students at the circulation desk. "Midterm season starting early this year."
We fell into the familiar rhythm—checking out books, helping students find materials, answering questions about database access. It was busy enough to keep me moving but not so overwhelming that I couldn't handle it.
Around 4:30, during a brief lull, Ji-Won leaned against the desk and studied me.
"You really do look better. Less like a zombie."
"Thanks?"
"I'm serious. Last week you looked like you were about to collapse. What happened?"
"I worked too much. Wasn't taking care of myself. Friends staged an intervention."
"Good friends."
"The best."
She nodded approvingly. "You know, you don't have to be a martyr. We're all struggling. You're allowed to not be perfect."
"When did you become so wise?"
"I'm a senior. Wisdom comes with age and suffering."
A student approached needing help finding Korean legal journals, and we both jumped back into work mode. But her words stuck with me.
You're allowed to not be perfect.
Maybe I was finally starting to believe that.
By the time my shift ended at 7, I was tired but not exhausted. Hungry but not starving. Ready to go home but not desperate to collapse.
Progress.
I walked back to the apartment in the cool evening air, stopping at the GS25 to grab ingredients for dinner. Not ramyeon. Real ingredients. Kimchi, pork belly, rice cakes. I could make something decent.
When I got home, both Yoo-Na and Min-Ji were already there, sprawled on the couch watching some drama.
"You're cooking?" Min-Ji asked, seeing my grocery bags.
"I'm cooking. As thanks for yesterday. And today. And generally keeping me alive."
"Oh my god, character growth. I'm so proud."
I made kimchi jjigae, the spicy stew my mom used to make, and we ate together at the table while Min-Ji complained about a difficult surgery she'd observed and Yoo-Na ranted about a classmate who'd stolen her presentation ideas.
Normal problems. Normal complaints. Normal life.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Min-Ji said around a mouthful of rice. "Running club tomorrow morning. You coming?"
Wednesday. Which meant I'd see Bok-Jin again.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm coming."
"You sure? You don't have to push yourself."
"I'm sure. I miss running. And I'm the president. I should actually show up."
"Just don't collapse again. My heart can't take it."
"I'll pace myself. Promise."
After dinner, we cleaned up together, and then I retreated to my room to work on homework and paper ideas. But first, I pulled out my LEET prep book.
I'd been neglecting it for weeks. The practice problems looked foreign, like a language I'd forgotten how to speak.
But I opened it anyway. Did one practice section. Got most of the answers right, which was encouraging.
One section a night. That was manageable. I could rebuild my skills one practice problem at a time.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Bok-Jin: Goodnight. I hope you had a good day.
I stared at it for a moment, then typed back: I did. Thank you. You too.
Simple. Not romantic. But not hostile either.
Maybe we could be friends. Maybe that's what we needed to be right now—just friends who cared about each other from a distance.
It wasn't what I wanted. But it was more than nothing.
And right now, more than nothing felt like enough.