Wednesday morning my alarm went off at 5:30, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't immediately want to throw my phone across the room.
I was still tired—probably would be for a while—but it was normal tired. Human tired. Not the crushing exhaustion that made every movement feel like wading through concrete.
I got dressed in my running clothes, drank water, ate a banana. Basic self-care that I'd been neglecting for too long.
Min-Ji was already up, tying her shoes by the door.
"Ready?" she asked.
"As I'll ever be."
"You're going to take it easy, right? No heroic sprinting?"
"I'm going to run at a normal human pace like a normal human person."
"Good. Because if you collapse again, I'm going to kill you myself and save your body the trouble."
"So supportive."
We walked to campus together in the predawn darkness, our breath fogging in the March air. It was cold enough that I was grateful for my hoodie, but the promise of spring was there—something subtle in the air that said winter was finally letting go.
The running club was already gathering when we arrived. Familiar faces, people I'd been avoiding properly seeing for weeks while I was just trying to survive.
Golden retriever freshman—I really needed to learn her actual name—waved enthusiastically. A few other regulars nodded hello. And there, stretching near the edge of the group, was Bok-Jin.
He looked up when I approached, and something complicated crossed his face. Relief, maybe. Or worry. Or both.
"Morning," I said, keeping my voice neutral.
"Morning. How are you feeling?"
"Better. Much better."
"Good." He went back to his stretches, giving me space, and I was grateful for it.
Min-Ji clapped her hands, taking charge. "Alright everyone! Standard warm-ups. Let's get moving before we all freeze."
We went through the routine—dynamic stretches, light cardio, the familiar preparation my body remembered even when my brain had been too foggy to think. It felt good to move properly, with intention instead of desperation.
"Same route," Min-Ji announced. "Five K around campus. Ji-Mang will set a reasonable pace for the first half, then free pace after. And by reasonable, I mean actually reasonable, not 'trying to outrun my demons.'"
A few people laughed. I felt my face heat.
"I'll behave," I promised.
"You better."
We started running, and I deliberately kept my pace moderate. Not too slow, not pushing. Just steady, sustainable running.
It felt different. Without the weight of exhaustion and panic and two weeks of barely sleeping, I could actually enjoy it. The rhythm of my feet on pavement, the morning air in my lungs, the gradual loosening of muscles as they warmed up.
This was why I'd started the club in the first place. Because running made me feel free.
I'd forgotten that somewhere along the way.
Bok-Jin fell into pace beside me, and I didn't pull away or speed up. We ran side by side in comfortable silence, like we used to before everything got complicated.
"You're running better," he observed after a while.
"I'm not actively destroying myself. Makes a difference."
"Yeah. It does." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I'm glad you're taking care of yourself now."
"Me too."
We didn't talk more than that—didn't need to. Just ran together, two people who used to be something more, now figuring out how to exist in the same space without it hurting quite so much.
By the time we circled back to the meeting point, I was properly tired but not destroyed. Breathing hard but not gasping. Sweaty and energized instead of ready to collapse.
Progress.
"Good run, everyone!" Min-Ji called out. "Same time Friday. And Ji-Mang actually ran like a human today, so that's character growth."
"Thanks for the endorsement," I said dryly.
People started dispersing, but golden retriever freshman—I really, really needed her name—approached me with concern in her eyes.
"Unnie, are you okay? We heard you weren't feeling well on Monday."
"I'm fine now. Just pushed myself too hard. But I'm better."
"Good. We were worried. You're our club president—we need you."
Something warm settled in my chest. "Thanks. I appreciate that."
"Also," she continued, suddenly shy, "I wanted to ask... I'm having trouble with my Legal Writing class. I know you're really good at it. Would you maybe have time to help me? I can pay—"
"You don't need to pay me. When are you free?"
"Really? Oh my god, thank you! Um, I have a break Thursday afternoon? Around 2?"
"I work at 3, but I can meet you at the library at 2. Bring your assignment and we'll go through it."
She beamed. "Thank you so much, unnie! I'm Kim Ji-Yeon, by the way. I know we've been in the club together for months but I wasn't sure if you remembered—"
"Ji-Yeon. Got it. See you Thursday."
She bounded off happily, and I felt oddly pleased. Teaching someone, helping them—it reminded me why I wanted to be a lawyer in the first place. Not just for the money or status or proving something, but because I was actually good at understanding complex problems and explaining them clearly.
"That was nice of you."
I turned to find Bok-Jin standing a few feet away, his water bottle in hand.
"She seems like she genuinely needs help. And I remember being a confused freshman."
"Still. You're busy. Taking time to help her says a lot about you."
"Are you trying to compliment me into forgiving you for something? Because we're not dating anymore. You don't have to butter me up."
"I'm not—" He stopped, seeing my slight smile. "You're messing with me."
"Maybe a little."
He smiled back, and it was almost like before. Almost.
"I should go," I said before the moment could get too heavy. "I have class at 8:30 and I need to shower first."
"Yeah. Me too." He hesitated. "Maybe we could... grab coffee sometime? Just as friends. Just to talk?"
"Maybe. I'll think about it."
"Okay. That's fair."
I walked away feeling lighter than I had in weeks. We weren't fixed. We weren't together. But we weren't completely broken either.
And maybe that was enough for now.
Constitutional Law was reviewing administrative procedure for the midterm paper. Professor Kwon went through the requirements in detail—minimum 15 pages, at least 20 sources, original argument required.
I took notes diligently, already thinking about my topic. I'd narrowed it down to analyzing the judicial review standard for environmental agency decisions, but I needed to refine it more.
After class, Seung-Ho intercepted me in the hallway.
"Han Ji-Mang. You looked better in class today. Less like a zombie."
"Thanks, Seung-Ho. Always nice to get your input on my appearance."
"I'm just saying, whatever breakdown you were having seems to have passed. Good for you."
"Was there a point to this conversation, or are you just exercising your natural talent for being condescending?"
"Actually, yes. I heard you're not doing the Jiseung internship anymore. Withdrew your application."
I had withdrawn it—sent a polite email last week saying I was no longer pursuing the position due to personal circumstances. I couldn't handle an internship on top of everything else, and I didn't want to waste anyone's time.
"So?" I said.
"So that means less competition for the rest of us. I just wanted to say I hope your 'personal circumstances' are resolved." He said it like he didn't believe there were any real circumstances, like I'd just given up.
"My circumstances are none of your business. But thanks for the fake concern."
"You know, you could have had a real shot at that internship if you weren't so busy working convenience store shifts and pretending you belong here."
There it was. The real Seung-Ho, unable to resist being cruel.
"At least I belong here on merit," I said evenly. "Not because my father plays golf with the dean. Have a nice day, Seung-Ho."
I walked away before he could respond, but his words stuck with me.
Pretending you belong here.
Was I pretending? Or was I actually earning my place despite every obstacle?
I chose to believe the latter.
I had a few hours between classes, so I grabbed lunch at the student cafeteria—a proper meal with rice and soup and vegetables, not just triangle kimbap.
While eating, I pulled up my email and found one from Professor Kwon.
Subject: Office Hours
Ms. Han,
I noticed you struggled in class a few weeks ago and missed several responses you normally would have answered correctly. Your performance has improved this week, which is good. However, I wanted to check in regarding your academic trajectory.
Please stop by my office hours this week. Thursday 3-5 PM or Friday 10-12 PM.
- Professor Kwon
My stomach dropped. A summons to Professor Kwon's office was never good. She didn't do casual check-ins.
I typed a response: Professor Kwon, I can come Thursday at 4 PM. Thank you.
Thursday at 4 meant I'd have to skip part of my library shift or come in late. But you didn't decline Professor Kwon.
I finished lunch while trying not to spiral about what she wanted to discuss, then headed to my afternoon class.
Legal Research was working on a new mock assignment—researching precedent for a contract dispute. I partnered with Hye-Ri again, and we fell into an easy rhythm.
"You seem more focused than last week," she commented while we searched databases.
"Yeah, I had some... personal stuff going on. But it's better now."
"Good. Because you're actually really good at this. It would be a waste if you burned out."
"Thanks. I'm trying not to."
We found our cases, wrote our analysis, and by the time class ended, I felt accomplished. Like I was actually learning again instead of just surviving.
My library shift started at 3, and the afternoon was busy with students researching for various projects. I helped a freshman find Korean case law, showed a sophomore how to use the legal database filters, and spent twenty minutes explaining citation formats to someone who was clearly panicking about their paper.
Around 5 PM, during a brief lull, I pulled out my LEET prep book and worked through a few practice problems at the circulation desk.
Ji-Won noticed. "You're studying during work now?"
"Just when it's quiet. Is that okay?"
"It's fine. Just impressive. You're really serious about law school."
"It's the plan. Has been for years."
"What kind of law do you want to practice?"
I thought about it. "I used to think I wanted corporate law because that's where the money is. But lately... I don't know. Maybe public interest? Something that actually helps people who can't afford fancy lawyers."
"That's noble. Also probably pays terribly."
"Yeah. But it feels more meaningful."
"Meaning doesn't pay rent."
"No, but neither does hating your job." I shrugged. "I'll figure it out. Right now I just need to actually get into law school."
A student approached needing help, and we both jumped back into work mode. But the conversation stuck with me.
What kind of lawyer did I want to be?
Someone who helped people like me. People who couldn't afford the system stacked against them. People who needed someone to fight for them.
That's what I wanted. Even if it meant less money, less prestige.
I wanted to matter.
By the time my shift ended at 7, I was tired but satisfied. I'd had a full day of actual productivity—classes, work, studying. Normal college student things.
I walked home in the evening darkness, stopping at the GS25 for ingredients. Tonight was my turn to cook, and I wanted to make something good. Something that showed my roommates I appreciated them.
When I got home, both of them were already there, and Min-Ji was on the phone with someone, her voice unusually serious.
"Okay. Yeah. I'll tell her. Thanks for calling."
She hung up and looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"That was your mom," she said. "Your dad got the job."
The words didn't register at first.
"What?"
"Your dad. The Busan job. They offered it to him. He starts in three weeks."
Everything stopped. The grocery bags in my hands, the sounds from outside, my own breathing.
"He got it," I repeated.
"He got it. Your mom tried calling you first but you didn't answer, so she called me. She wanted you to know right away."
I set down the groceries very carefully and pulled out my phone. Three missed calls from my mom. I'd had it on silent during my shift.
I called her back immediately.
"Ji-Mang!" She sounded like she was crying and laughing at the same time. "Did Min-Ji tell you?"
"She told me. Mom, is it real? He actually got it?"
"It's real. They called this afternoon with the offer. Better salary than his old job, benefits, everything. We'll have to move, but we have three weeks to figure it out, and they're even helping with relocation costs."
I sat down on the couch because my legs weren't quite working. "That's... that's amazing."
"Your father wants to talk to you. Hold on."
There was a shuffle, and then my father's voice, thick with emotion. "Ji-Mang-ah."
"Dad. Congratulations."
"Thank you for believing in me. For supporting us through this. I know it wasn't easy."
"You don't have to thank me. You're my family."
"Still. What you did—sending that money every month, working so hard—we won't forget it. And now, finally, you can focus on yourself again. On school. On your future."
My throat felt tight. "I'm proud of you, Dad. You didn't give up."
"Neither did you. That's what our family does. We don't give up."
We talked for a few more minutes—logistics about the move, when he'd start, what it meant for my siblings' schools. Then I talked to my mom again, and she was already making plans, already organizing, already being the strong center of our family.
When I finally hung up, both Yoo-Na and Min-Ji were watching me with huge smiles.
"So?" Min-Ji prompted. "How do you feel?"
"I feel..." I searched for the word. "Free. Like I can breathe again."
"You don't have to send money anymore," Yoo-Na said. "You can focus on LEET, on school, on actually living."
"Yeah. I can."
The relief was overwhelming. Tears started falling before I could stop them—happy tears this time, not the desperate ones I'd been crying for weeks.
My friends pulled me into a hug, and we just sat there on the couch in a tangle of limbs and emotions.
"We're celebrating," Min-Ji declared. "We're ordering the good chicken. The expensive kind. And we're watching terrible dramas and eating until we can't move."
"I can't afford the expensive chicken—"
"My treat. You just got your life back. That's worth celebrating."
So we did. We ordered way too much fried chicken, opened a bottle of soju Yoo-Na had been saving, and watched a makjang drama while making fun of the ridiculous plot twists.
It was perfect. Normal. Happy.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself believe that things were actually going to be okay.
Later that night, after my friends had gone to bed and I was alone in my room, I pulled out my phone.
I had several congratulatory texts from my siblings, a long message from my mom detailing the moving plans, and one text from a number I'd been seeing more often lately.
Bok-Jin: Good night. I hope tomorrow is even better than today was.
I looked at it for a long time, thinking about everything that had happened. My father's new job. The weight lifting from my shoulders. The possibility of actually having my life back.
And Bok-Jin, who'd been patient and kind even when I'd given him every reason not to be.
Maybe it was time to actually talk to him. Really talk, not just brief exchanges at running club.
Me: Tomorrow will be better. I have good news to share. Coffee sometime soon? As friends?
His response came quickly: I'd like that. Whenever you're ready.
Me: Saturday afternoon? After my library shift?
Bok-Jin: Saturday afternoon. I'll be there.
I set my phone down and lay in bed, staring at my ceiling, feeling something unfamiliar and wonderful.
Hope. Real, solid hope.
My family was going to be okay. My father had a job. I could go back to being a full-time student, could actually prepare for LEET, could rebuild the life I'd put on hold.
And maybe—just maybe—I could figure out what to do about the boy I'd pushed away because I was too scared to be vulnerable.
One day at a time. One step at a time.
But for the first time in weeks, I actually believed there was a path forward.