Thursday morning I woke up with a knot of anxiety in my stomach.
Professor Kwon's office hours. 4 PM.
I'd been trying not to think about it, but now that the day was here, I couldn't ignore the dread. Professor Kwon didn't summon students for casual chats. If she wanted to see me, it was because something was wrong.
Or maybe—possibly—she wanted to talk about the LEET study group again? The one I'd turned down because I'd been drowning?
I got ready mechanically, reviewing everything I could have done wrong. My grades had slipped a few weeks ago, but I'd recovered. My participation was usually good. I hadn't missed any major assignments.
"Stop spiraling," Min-Ji said, watching me pace the kitchen. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor."
"What if she's going to tell me I'm failing? What if she's going to recommend I withdraw from the class?"
"Then you'll deal with it. But that's not going to happen. You're one of her best students."
"I was one of her best students. Before I had a breakdown and couldn't answer basic questions for two weeks."
"And now you're recovering. She probably just wants to check in, make sure you're okay."
"Professor Kwon doesn't do feelings. She does academic performance and cold hard facts."
"Well, your academic performance is back on track. So you're fine." Min-Ji pushed a plate of toast toward me. "Eat. You'll think better with food."
I ate, even though my stomach was protesting, and tried to focus on the rest of my day. I had two classes before meeting Ji-Yeon at 2, then Professor Kwon at 4. I could survive this. I'd survived worse.
My morning classes passed in a blur. Administrative Law review, then a Legal Ethics lecture about conflicts of interest. I took notes, participated when called on, tried to prove to myself that I was still capable.
At 1:45, I headed to the library to meet Ji-Yeon.
She was already waiting at one of the study tables, her Legal Writing materials spread out in front of her, looking anxious.
"Unnie! Thank you so much for helping me. I know you're busy."
"It's fine. Show me what you're working on."
She pushed her assignment across the table—a legal memo analyzing a hypothetical case. I skimmed it, immediately seeing the issues.
"Okay, so your issue statement is unclear. You're trying to fit too much into one sentence. Break it down. What's the specific legal question you're analyzing?"
"Um... whether the contract was valid even though one party was a minor?"
"Right. So your issue statement should be: 'Whether a contract entered into by a minor is voidable at the minor's discretion under Korean contract law.' Simple, clear, one question."
"Oh. That makes sense."
We worked through her memo section by section. Her analysis wasn't bad—she understood the concepts—but her writing was disorganized and unclear. I showed her how to structure her arguments, how to use topic sentences, how to connect her reasoning to the legal standards.
"You're really good at explaining things," she said after about thirty minutes. "Have you ever thought about being a professor?"
"Not really. I want to practice law, help actual clients."
"But you're so patient. Some of the TAs get annoyed when we ask questions, but you just... explain it differently until it makes sense."
"I remember being confused. Everyone starts somewhere."
We finished going through her memo by 2:45. She packed up her materials with obvious relief.
"Thank you so much, unnie. I feel like I actually understand this now."
"Good. And Ji-Yeon? You're smarter than you think. You just need to trust yourself more."
She beamed and hurried off to her next class, leaving me with fifteen minutes before I had to face Professor Kwon.
I used the time to review my own work, to prepare myself mentally for whatever was coming.
At 3:55, I stood outside Professor Kwon's office, taking deep breaths.
You can do this. Whatever she says, you can handle it.
I knocked.
"Come in."
I opened the door to find Professor Kwon sitting behind her desk, reviewing papers with her usual focused intensity. Her office was exactly what you'd expect—walls lined with legal texts, a window overlooking campus, everything organized with precise efficiency.
"Ms. Han. Sit."
I sat in the chair across from her desk, trying to look calm and professional instead of terrified.
Professor Kwon set down her pen and looked at me with those sharp eyes that seemed to see through every pretense.
"I'll be direct. Three weeks ago, you were functioning at your usual high level. Then you had a noticeable decline—missed answers, lack of focus, general signs of stress. This week, you've recovered somewhat. I want to know what happened."
"I had some personal circumstances that affected my performance. But they're resolved now. It won't happen again."
"Personal circumstances," she repeated. "I'm not asking for details. But I am asking whether whatever happened is going to impact your long-term academic trajectory."
"No, Professor. I'm back on track."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're one of the top students in my class, Ms. Han. Probably top five in your year overall. But talent isn't enough. Law school and legal practice require sustained excellence, not sporadic brilliance interrupted by collapse."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like someone who was pushing herself to a breaking point. And that concerns me, because students who burn out in undergrad rarely make it through the brutality of law school."
The words stung, but they weren't wrong.
"I was working too much," I admitted. "Two jobs plus full-time classes. My family needed financial support, and I thought I could handle everything. I was wrong. But the situation has changed—my father got a job, they're financially stable now, so I can focus on school properly."
Professor Kwon nodded slowly. "That's good. Family obligations are important, but you can't sacrifice your future for short-term crises. Sometimes you have to let other people carry their own weight."
"I'm learning that."
"Good. Because I didn't ask you here to scold you. I asked because I wanted to follow up on the LEET study group Professor Jung offered."
Oh.
"I turned that down because I didn't have time. But now—"
"Now you might?" Professor Kwon leaned back slightly. "Professor Jung's group is highly competitive. She usually takes students who can commit to the full program. If you're still interested, I can reach out to her again. But only if you're serious about it."
"I'm serious. I want to take LEET in December, apply for law schools in January. That hasn't changed."
"Then I'll contact Professor Jung. She'll be in touch if she has space." Professor Kwon picked up her pen again, a clear signal the meeting was ending. "Ms. Han, you have real potential. Don't waste it by trying to be a martyr. Get the help you need, focus on what matters, and stop sabotaging yourself with overwork."
"Yes, Professor. Thank you."
"Dismissed."
I left her office feeling lighter than I'd expected. She hadn't been angry or disappointed—she'd been concerned. And more than that, she was giving me another chance at the LEET prep program I'd thought I'd lost.
Maybe things really were starting to line up.
I texted Ji-Won that I'd be late to my library shift, grabbed coffee from the campus café, and allowed myself to feel hopeful.
My family was stable. Professor Kwon believed in me. I might still get into the LEET program. And on Saturday, I'd talk to Bok-Jin properly for the first time in weeks.
Everything wasn't perfect. But it was better. Significantly better.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Hi Ms. Han, this is Professor Jung Min-Hee. Professor Kwon reached out about your interest in the LEET study group. Are you available for a brief call this evening to discuss?
My heart jumped.
Me: Yes, I'm available anytime after 7 PM. Thank you for considering me.
Professor Jung: I'll call at 7:30. Talk soon.
This was happening. Actually happening.
I walked to my library shift with a smile I couldn't quite suppress, and even the usual chaos of helping stressed students couldn't dampen my mood.
At 7:30 PM, I was sitting in my room when my phone rang.
"Ms. Han? This is Professor Jung."
"Yes, hello Professor. Thank you for calling."
"Professor Kwon spoke very highly of you. She said you had some personal circumstances that prevented you from joining the group initially, but that those are now resolved?"
"Yes. My family had a financial crisis—my father lost his job. I was working extra hours to support them, which made it impossible to commit to the study schedule. But he got a new job this week, so I'm able to focus on academics now."
"I see. And you're planning to take LEET in December?"
"Yes. I want to apply for law school for next spring."
"The program is intensive—fifteen hours per week of group sessions, plus probably another ten hours of independent study. Can you commit to that schedule?"
Twenty-five hours a week. Plus my regular classes and one library shift to maintain some income. It would be tight, but manageable.
"Yes. I can commit."
"Good. The group meets Tuesday and Thursday evenings, 6-9 PM, and Saturday mornings, 9 AM-12 PM. We cover all three sections of the test—reading comprehension, reasoning, and essay writing. It's rigorous, and I expect everyone to come prepared and participate actively."
"I understand. I'm ready for that."
"Excellent. We start next Tuesday. I'll email you the materials and location. And Ms. Han?"
"Yes?"
"Professor Kwon doesn't recommend students lightly. Don't make her regret it."
"I won't. Thank you for this opportunity."
After we hung up, I sat there for a moment, letting it sink in.
I was in. I was actually in the LEET prep program.
I pulled out my calendar and started planning. Classes, library shifts, study group sessions. It would be busy, but it was the good kind of busy—working toward my goals instead of just surviving.
I could do this.
Friday passed quickly. Running club in the morning—Bok-Jin and I ran together again, comfortable silence—then classes, library shift, evening studying.
I worked through LEET practice problems for two hours, getting back into the rhythm of the test format. My brain felt sharp again, engaged. Like I was actually thinking instead of just processing information mechanically.
Saturday morning I woke up with butterflies.
Coffee with Bok-Jin. At 2 PM, after my library shift.
I went through my morning routine trying not to overthink it. We were just talking. As friends. To clear the air about what had happened. Nothing more.
Except it felt like more.
My library shift was busy enough to distract me—midterm season was ramping up and students were desperate for research help. I helped a panicked sophomore find cases, showed a freshman how to cite properly, and spent twenty minutes walking someone through database filters.
At 1:50, I clocked out and went to the bathroom to check my reflection.
I looked tired but better. The dark circles had faded. My face had filled out again now that I was eating properly. I'd put on some of the weight I'd lost.
I looked human. That was something.
I met Bok-Jin at the café at exactly 2 PM.
He was already there, sitting at a corner table with two coffees—he'd ordered for me, remembered how I liked it. The small gesture made my chest tight.
"Hi," I said, sliding into the seat across from him.
"Hi. How was your shift?"
"Busy. Midterm season."
"Right. I have three exams next week. It's brutal."
We made small talk about classes and assignments for a few minutes, dancing around the real conversation we needed to have.
Finally, he set down his coffee and looked at me directly.
"I'm glad you wanted to talk. I've been wanting to understand what happened. Why you pushed me away."
I took a breath. This was it.
"My dad lost his job," I said. "A few weeks ago. My family needed money—a lot of money—and I was trying to handle it by myself. Working extra shifts, sending everything home, barely surviving. I pushed you away because I couldn't admit I needed help. Because accepting help from you—from someone with money—felt like admitting I was weak."
He listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable.
"I broke up with you because I was scared," I continued. "Scared of being dependent. Scared of proving everyone right who said I was just after your money. Scared of losing myself in the process of being saved."
"I never thought you were after my money," he said quietly. "I never would have thought that."
"I know. But I would have thought it. Every time you helped me, I would have felt like I was failing. Like I wasn't enough on my own."
"But you don't have to be everything on your own. That's not weakness, Ji-Mang. That's just... being human."
"I'm starting to understand that. My friends basically forced me to realize it." I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. "My dad got a job this week. A good one. In Busan. So my family's going to be okay now. I can actually focus on school again, on LEET, on my actual future."
"That's great. Really great."
"Yeah. It is." I looked up at him. "And I wanted you to know—what happened between us wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. I was just too stubborn and scared to let myself be vulnerable."
"I appreciate you telling me this." He paused. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"When you broke up with me on the rooftop... did you mean it? About us being from different worlds, about it never working?"
I thought about how to answer honestly.
"In that moment? Yeah, I believed it. I believed the gap was too wide, the obstacles too big. But now..." I took a breath. "Now I think I was using that as an excuse. The real issue wasn't the gap between us. It was the gap between who I thought I needed to be—completely self-sufficient, never needing anyone—and who I actually am. Someone who's strong, but also human. Someone who can accept help without it destroying me."
He was quiet, processing.
"Where does that leave us?" he asked finally.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I know I pushed you away and hurt you. I know I broke something that might not be fixable. But I also know that I—" I stopped, not sure if I should say it.
"You what?"
"I miss you," I said quietly. "I miss talking to you. I miss running together. I miss feeling like someone actually sees me, not just what I can accomplish or how hard I work, but actually me."
His expression softened. "I miss you too. So much."
"But I don't know if we can go back to what we were. Or if we should even try."
"Maybe we don't go back," he suggested. "Maybe we figure out something new. Start over, but smarter this time. More honest."
"What would that look like?"
"I don't know yet. But I'd like to find out. If you're willing."
I looked at him—at his kind eyes behind those glasses, at the boy who'd caught me when I collapsed, who'd been patient when I pushed him away, who'd loved me even when I couldn't love myself properly.
"I'm willing," I said. "But I need to do it slowly. I need to rebuild myself first, figure out who I am when I'm not just surviving. And I need to know that if we try again, it's because we're actually right for each other, not just because we miss what we had."
"That's fair. That's really fair."
"And I need to be honest with you going forward. About my struggles, my fears, all of it. No more pushing you away when things get hard."
"I'd like that. And I promise I'll never try to fix your problems without asking. I'll support you, but I won't try to rescue you."
"Deal."
We talked for another hour—about his family pressure, about my LEET prep, about our classes and friends and everything that had happened in the weeks we'd been apart. It felt easy, natural. Like coming home after a long journey.
When we finally left the café, the sun was starting to set, painting everything in golden light.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
We walked slowly, not holding hands but close enough that our arms occasionally brushed. Not quite friends, not quite back together, but something in between.
Something with potential.
At my building, we stopped in our usual spot.
"Thank you for today," I said. "For listening. For understanding."
"Thank you for being honest. For giving us a chance."
"So what now?"
"Now we take it slow. We talk more. We figure out what this is." He smiled. "And we keep showing up to running club, because if we don't, Min-Ji will kill us both."
I laughed. "True. She's very invested in our drama."
"Everyone's invested in our drama. We're apparently very entertaining."
"Great. Just what I needed. An audience."
He laughed, and I felt something settle in my chest. Hope, maybe. Or just the relief of honesty.
"Goodnight, Ji-Mang."
"Goodnight, Bok-Jin."
I watched him walk away, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was moving in the right direction.
Toward something real. Something honest. Something worth fighting for.