Monday morning running club felt different.
Not dramatically different—we still met at 6 AM, still did the same warm-ups, still ran the same route. But something had shifted between Bok-Jin and me, something subtle but significant.
We weren't pretending anymore. Weren't dancing around each other or maintaining careful distance. We just... existed together. Comfortably.
"Morning," he said when I arrived, and his smile was genuine, easy.
"Morning. Ready to suffer?"
"Always."
We stretched near each other, chatted with other club members, and when we started running, he fell into pace beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"How was the rest of your weekend?" he asked as we found our rhythm.
"Good. Studied for LEET, worked on my Constitutional Law paper topic. Normal stuff."
"What's your paper on?"
"Judicial review standards for environmental agency decisions. Specifically whether courts should give more deference when the environmental harm is irreversible."
"That sounds complicated."
"It is. But it's interesting. There's this tension between letting expert agencies make technical decisions versus courts ensuring they don't abuse their power."
"See, this is why I'm in business. We just argue about profit margins and market strategy."
"That sounds equally terrible."
"It really is."
We ran in comfortable silence for a while, and I found myself noticing small things. The way his breathing stayed even and controlled. How he adjusted his pace when someone else needed to pass. The glimpse of his concentrated expression when we hit a hill.
I'd missed this. Not just running with him, but being around him. The easiness of it.
"So Tuesday you start LEET prep?" he asked as we rounded the library.
"Yeah. First session is 6 to 9 PM. I'm nervous."
"You'll be great. You're always great at this stuff."
"I'm out of practice. I haven't seriously studied for LEET in weeks."
"Then you'll get back into practice. That's what the prep course is for."
His confidence in me was almost annoying in how much it helped.
"What about you?" I asked. "How's your week looking?"
"Brutal. Midterms for Business Strategy and Financial Analysis, plus a group project presentation that I'm pretty sure my team hasn't started yet."
"Sounds fun."
"It's a nightmare. But it's my nightmare, so I'll handle it."
We finished the run, did our cool-down stretches, and lingered while other club members dispersed.
"Good luck tomorrow," he said. "Text me after? Let me know how it goes?"
"Yeah. I will."
"And Ji-Mang?" He adjusted his glasses, that nervous gesture I'd come to recognize. "I'm glad we're doing this. Whatever this is. It feels... right."
"Yeah," I said, feeling warmth spread through my chest. "It does."
Tuesday I was anxious all day.
Classes passed in a blur. I ate lunch with Yoo-Na and Min-Ji, who both gave me pep talks about the LEET session.
"You're going to be amazing," Min-Ji insisted. "You're literally the smartest person we know."
"That's not true. Yoo-Na has a 4.0."
"Yoo-Na is naturally gifted. You're scary smart through sheer force of will. Different kind of impressive."
"I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."
"You should. It is one."
By 5:45 PM, I was standing outside the classroom where Professor Jung's study group met, trying not to throw up from nerves.
The room was in the law building, a seminar space with a large table and whiteboards on every wall. When I walked in at 5:55, there were already four people there.
Professor Jung was at the head of the table—a woman in her early forties with sharp eyes and an air of no-nonsense competence. She looked up when I entered.
"Ms. Han?"
"Yes. Hello, Professor Jung."
"Good. You're early. I appreciate punctuality." She gestured to the table. "Sit anywhere. We'll start introductions once everyone arrives."
I chose a seat halfway down the table and pulled out my materials. The other students gave me polite nods—two guys and two girls, all looking equally nervous.
By 6:05, two more students had arrived, and Professor Jung called the meeting to order.
"Alright. Let's start with introductions. Name, year, major, and why you're here. I'll go first. I'm Professor Jung Min-Hee. I taught LEET prep for ten years before moving into academic advising. I run this study group because I believe merit-based access to legal education matters. Now you."
She pointed at the guy to her left.
"I'm Park Tae-Min, fourth year economics. I'm taking LEET in December for law school applications."
We went around the table. The group was diverse—two fourth years, three third years like me, and one second year who was taking the test early. Different majors, different backgrounds, all united by the same goal: get into law school.
When it was my turn: "Han Ji-Mang, third year law. Taking LEET in December for law school applications next spring."
Professor Jung nodded approvingly. "Good. Now let's talk about expectations."
For the next thirty minutes, she laid out the program structure. We'd work through all three sections systematically—reading comprehension, logical reasoning, and essay writing. Each session would include practice problems, group discussion, and individual feedback.
"This program works if you put in the effort," she said bluntly. "I can't make you smart. But I can teach you how to think like the test wants you to think. The question is whether you're willing to do the work."
We all nodded.
"Good. Let's start with a diagnostic. I want to see where everyone is currently."
She handed out a practice test—shortened version, just one section from each category. We had ninety minutes.
I dove in, and immediately felt the familiar challenge of LEET questions. They weren't about memorizing facts. They were about processing complex information quickly, identifying logical structures, constructing clear arguments.
My brain, finally given something substantial to work on after weeks of just surviving, felt engaged. Alive.
When time was up, Professor Jung collected our tests.
"We'll review these next session. For now, let's talk strategy. LEET is about patterns. Once you recognize the patterns, the test becomes manageable. Let's start with reading comprehension."
The next two hours flew by. Professor Jung was demanding but clear, pushing us to think deeper, question our assumptions, articulate our reasoning. She called on each of us multiple times, never letting anyone hide.
By 9 PM, my brain was exhausted but in the best way. Like I'd actually learned something instead of just absorbing information.
As we packed up, one of the other students—a girl named Lee Su-Jin—approached me.
"Hey, you're in Professor Kwon's Constitutional Law class, right?"
"Yeah. You too?"
"I sit in the back. You're really good. I remember you answering that proportionality review question."
"Thanks. It's a tough class."
"The toughest. Are you applying to SNU Law School?"
"That's the dream. You?"
"Same. Though with my grades, it's a long shot." She smiled ruefully. "That's why I'm here. Need all the help I can get with LEET."
"I think we all do."
We walked out together, joined by Tae-Min and another student, and I realized I was making connections. Building a network of people in the same situation, all fighting for the same goal.
This was what college was supposed to be. Not just surviving, but actually engaging. Learning. Growing.
I texted Bok-Jin on my walk home: First session done. It was intense but good. I think this is going to work.
His response came quickly: Told you you'd be great. Proud of you.
Me: How was your day?
Bok-Jin: Survived my midterms. Group project is still a disaster. But I'm alive.
Me: Survival is underrated.
Bok-Jin: True. Want to grab lunch tomorrow? Just as friends who need to eat.
I smiled at my phone. Yeah. Where?
Bok-Jin: Student cafeteria? 12:30?
Me: See you there.
Simple. Easy. No pressure.
But my heart was doing that stupid fluttering thing anyway.
Wednesday lunch found me in the student cafeteria, tray in hand, scanning for Bok-Jin.
He waved from a table near the windows, already eating what looked like bibimbap.
"Hey," I said, sliding into the seat across from him. "Started without me?"
"I have class at 1:30. Had to be efficient." He gestured at my tray. "Wow, actual food. Not just triangle kimbap."
"Character growth."
"I'm impressed."
We ate and talked about normal things—his disastrous group project (two members had done nothing, one had disappeared entirely), my Constitutional Law paper (still struggling with the thesis), the approaching end of midterm season.
It felt remarkably normal. Like we'd never been anything more than friends, except for the occasional moment when our eyes met and something passed between us that was definitely not just friendship.
"Can I ask you something?" he said after a while.
"Sure."
"What made you change your mind? About talking to me, I mean. About giving this—whatever this is—a chance."
I thought about how to answer honestly.
"I think it was Seo-Yeon, actually. She told me that survival isn't the same as living. That the people who love you want to help not because they think you're weak, but because they think you're worth it." I stirred my soup. "And then my dad got his job, and suddenly I could breathe again. And I realized I'd been so focused on not needing anyone that I'd forgotten how to actually connect with people."
"Seo-Yeon said that?"
"Yeah. She's surprisingly wise for someone who's also actively lying to her parents about her sexuality."
He laughed. "She is. I'm glad she talked to you."
"Me too." I paused. "What about you? Why did you wait? You could have just... moved on. Found someone easier."
"Because you're not supposed to be easy. You're supposed to be real." He set down his chopsticks. "And because I meant what I said on the rooftop. I love you. That didn't go away just because you pushed me away."
My heart stopped. "Bok-Jin—"
"I'm not saying it to pressure you," he added quickly. "I'm just being honest. You asked, so I'm telling you. I love you. I'm willing to be patient while you figure out what you want. But that's how I feel."
I looked at him—at his earnest expression, his kind eyes, his complete sincerity—and felt my carefully constructed walls crack a little more.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "I'm scared of hurting you again. Of not being enough. Of all the ways this could go wrong."
"Being scared is okay. We can be scared together."
"That's a terrible relationship strategy."
"Maybe. But it's honest."
We finished lunch, and he walked me to my next class even though it was completely out of his way.
At the door to the lecture hall, he paused.
"For what it's worth," he said, "I think you're enough exactly as you are. Scared, imperfect, working too hard, all of it. You're enough."
And then he left before I could respond, leaving me standing there with a lump in my throat and a warmth in my chest.
The rest of the week settled into a new rhythm.
Classes in the morning, library shift in the afternoon, LEET study group Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Running club Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, where Bok-Jin and I ran together and talked about nothing and everything.
Saturday morning I had my first LEET study group from 9 AM to noon. We worked through logical reasoning problems, dissecting arguments, identifying flaws, building our own reasoning skills.
Professor Jung was relentless but effective. She pushed us to think faster, clearer, more precisely. By the end of three hours, my brain was fried but I felt sharper.
"Good work today," she said as we packed up. "Ms. Han, your diagnostic results were strong. Keep up that momentum."
"Thank you, Professor."
Su-Jin caught up with me as we left. "Want to grab lunch? A few of us are going to get jjajangmyeon."
"Yeah, sure."
We ended up at a Chinese restaurant near campus—me, Su-Jin, Tae-Min, and two others from the study group. We ordered food and complained about LEET while actually talking strategy.
This was what I'd been missing. Study partners. Academic friends. People who understood the pressure and could commiserate.
"So what law schools are you all applying to?" Tae-Min asked.
We went around the table. Everyone had similar lists—SNU, Korea University, Yonsei as reach schools, then a few backup options.
"What kind of law do you want to practice?" Su-Jin asked me.
"I used to think corporate law. But lately I've been thinking public interest. Something that actually helps people."
"That's noble. Also broke," Tae-Min said.
"Yeah. But meaningful."
"Meaning is underrated," another student—Choi Min-Seo—added. "I want to do criminal defense. Probably also broke, but at least interesting."
We spent two hours eating, talking, building friendships based on shared struggle and ambition.
When I finally left, full of jjajangmyeon and feeling more connected than I had in months, my phone buzzed.
Bok-Jin: How was study group?
Me: Really good. Made some friends. Ate too much jjajangmyeon.
Bok-Jin: Sounds perfect. Want to do something tomorrow? As friends who occasionally do non-academic things?
Me: Like what?
Bok-Jin: There's a spring festival at the park. Food, music, cherry blossoms. Very cliché. Probably crowded.
Me: Sounds terrible.
Bok-Jin: Want to go anyway?
I smiled at my phone. Yeah. What time?
Bok-Jin: 2 PM? I'll pick you up.
Me: See you then.
I walked home feeling lighter than I had in months. My family was stable. My academics were back on track. I had friends, goals, purpose.
And I had Bok-Jin, patient and kind, waiting to see what we could build together.
It wasn't perfect. But it was good.
And good was enough.