The last week of August felt like returning to a place that was familiar but different.
Fourth year. Senior year. My final year of undergraduate before law school—if I got in.
I walked through campus on the first day of fall semester and felt the shift. Three years ago, I'd been a lost freshman trying to figure out basic navigation. Now I was a senior who knew every shortcut, every good study spot, every cheap food vendor.
"Look at you," Min-Ji said as we walked to our first classes together. "All grown up and graduating soon."
"Don't remind me. I'm having an existential crisis."
"About what?"
"About everything. Law school applications, the future, whether I'm making the right choices."
"You're definitely making the right choices. You're brilliant and accomplished and you're going to get into amazing law schools."
"You have a lot of faith in me."
"Someone has to, since you don't have faith in yourself."
We split up at the main quad—her heading to vet school, me heading to the law building for Advanced Constitutional Law.
Professor Kwon's class was small—only twelve students, all seniors, all serious about law school. I recognized a few people from previous classes, including Seung-Ho, who nodded at me when I walked in.
"Welcome to Advanced Constitutional Law," Professor Kwon said, surveying us. "This is not a lecture class. This is a seminar. You'll be reading cases, presenting analyses, and engaging in rigorous debate. If you're not prepared to participate actively, drop now."
No one moved.
"Good. Let's begin."
The next ninety minutes were intense—discussion of constitutional interpretation theory, debates about originalism versus living constitutionalism, arguments about the role of courts in a democracy.
I loved every minute.
After class, Professor Kwon caught me at the door.
"Ms. Han. Do you have time this week to discuss your senior thesis proposal?"
"Yes, absolutely. When works for you?"
"Thursday at 2 PM. My office. Bring your preliminary ideas and any research you've done so far."
"I'll be there. Thank you, Professor."
Walking out of the law building, I felt energized. This was why I was doing this. Not for the prestige or the money or even for my family—but because I genuinely loved this work.
My phone buzzed. Bok-Jin.
Bok-Jin: First day of senior year! How does it feel?
Me: Good. Professor Kwon's class is going to be intense but amazing.
Bok-Jin: That's my brilliant girlfriend. Want to celebrate surviving your first day? Dinner?
Me: Can't tonight. Have to prep for tomorrow's classes. Tomorrow?
Bok-Jin: Tomorrow works. Miss you.
Me: Miss you too.
We'd been careful since the internship incident. Deliberately separate—not hiding, but not advertising. His father had made his position clear. We were together anyway, but quietly.
It felt like waiting for the next attack.
Wednesday morning running club was back to full attendance—everyone returned from summer travels and break.
"Senior year!" Ji-Yeon said excitedly during warm-ups. "Unnie, you're graduating soon! That's so cool!"
"And terrifying."
"Why terrifying?"
"Because after graduation comes real life. Jobs. Responsibilities. Adulthood."
"But you're going to law school, right?"
"If I get in. Applications don't open until November. Results don't come until next spring."
"You'll get in. You're so smart."
"We'll see."
Bok-Jin and I ran together, falling into our familiar rhythm.
"How are you feeling?" he asked. "About senior year?"
"Excited. Nervous. Overwhelmed by everything I need to do."
"Which is?"
"Maintain my GPA. Write a senior thesis. Prepare law school applications. Take the required courses. Find work to pay bills. Not have a mental breakdown."
"That last one seems important."
"It's definitely on the list."
"What are you doing for work? Since..." He trailed off.
Since your father got me fired. We both thought it but didn't say it.
"Tutoring. High school students. Twenty hours a week. It's fine."
"Just fine?"
"It pays the bills. That's all I need right now."
We ran in silence for a while, and I felt the distance between us. Not physical distance—we were literally running side by side. But emotional distance. The space created by his father's interference and our inability to do anything about it.
"Are we okay?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah. We're okay."
"You don't sound sure."
"I am sure. I'm just... tired. Of navigating this. Of always being on guard."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to apologize for your father."
"But I feel like I should. He's my family. His actions affect you."
"His actions are his responsibility. Not yours."
"I wish I believed that."
After the run, we grabbed coffee like we used to. But it felt different now. More careful. Like we were both walking on eggshells.
"My father's been asking about my plans for after graduation," he said, stirring his coffee.
"What kind of plans?"
"Career plans. Whether I'm staying at Hansung. Whether I'm considering graduate school." He paused. "Whether I'm 'still involved with that law student.'"
My stomach dropped. "What did you say?"
"I said my personal life was my business. He said everything is business when you're part of the family. Same conversation we always have."
"And?"
"And he's making noises about me getting an MBA. Preferably abroad. 'Expand my horizons' and 'build international connections.'"
"Do you want to get an MBA abroad?"
"I don't know what I want. I just know I don't want him making all my decisions." He looked at me. "But if I did go abroad—hypothetically—would that be something you'd consider? After you finish law school?"
"That's years away. We can't plan that far ahead."
"Why not?"
"Because too much could change. I might not get into law school. You might decide you want something different. Your father might—" I stopped.
"My father might what?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
"No, say it. My father might what?"
"He might succeed in breaking us up. That's what he wants. And he has power and money and influence. Eventually, he might win."
"He's not going to win."
"You can't know that."
"I can know that I'm not giving up on us."
"But what if I have to give up? What if staying with you costs me too much?"
"Has it? Cost you too much?"
I thought about the internship. The recommendation letter that was excellent but from a position I'd been forced out of. The careful navigation of keeping our relationship quiet. The constant anxiety about what his father would do next.
"Not yet," I said finally. "But I don't know what the future holds."
"No one knows what the future holds. That's not a reason to give up now."
"I'm not giving up. I'm just being realistic."
"Realistic or pessimistic?"
"Both. They're not mutually exclusive."
We finished our coffee in tense silence, and I wondered how long we could keep doing this. How long we could stay together while his father actively worked against us.
Thursday at 2 PM, I met with Professor Kwon to discuss my senior thesis.
"What are your ideas?" she asked, pulling out a notepad.
"I've been thinking about the intersection of environmental law and constitutional rights. Specifically, whether there's a constitutional basis for environmental protection that goes beyond statutory regulations."
"Interesting. Elaborate."
"Most environmental law is statutory—Clean Air Act, Clean Water Act, regulatory frameworks. But what if environmental protection could be grounded in constitutional principles? Right to life, right to health, substantive due process."
"That's ambitious. You'd be arguing for judicial recognition of environmental rights as fundamental."
"Or at least exploring whether that's theoretically defensible. Looking at comparative constitutional law, international human rights frameworks, and US constitutional theory."
She made notes. "It's a strong topic. Difficult, but strong. You'd need extensive research."
"I'm prepared for that."
"Good. Because this isn't going to be easy. You'll need to master environmental law, constitutional law, international law, and legal philosophy. Can you handle that while maintaining your other coursework?"
"I can handle it."
"Prove it. I want a ten-page preliminary literature review by October 1st. Show me you understand the existing scholarship."
"I'll have it ready."
"And Ms. Han? This thesis could be publishable if you do it well. Law journals are always interested in novel constitutional arguments. Keep that in mind."
Walking out of her office, I felt energized and terrified. A publishable senior thesis. That would look incredible on law school applications.
I just had to actually write it while maintaining my GPA, applying to law schools, working twenty hours a week, and navigating a relationship with someone whose father wanted me gone.
No pressure.
That evening, the roommates and I had our first dinner of the semester together.
"Okay, senior year goals," Yoo-Na announced, pulling out her laptop. "We're making a list."
"Why are you like this?" Min-Ji asked.
"Because organization is survival. Ji-Mang taught me that."
"Don't blame me for your neuroses."
"Too late. Now, goals. Ji-Mang?"
"Get into law school. Write an excellent thesis. Maintain my GPA. Don't have a mental breakdown."
"All achievable. Min-Ji?"
"Survive vet school. Get into a good residency program. Figure out my specialty. Also not have a mental breakdown."
"Patterns emerging. Me: finish my degree, get a job that isn't at my father's company, establish independence, escape family control." She typed everything up. "There. Official senior year goals."
"What happens if we don't achieve them?" I asked.
"Then we adapt and make new goals. But we're going to achieve them because we're brilliant and capable."
"You sound like Bok-Jin," I said.
"Bok-Jin is a smart man. How are things with him, by the way?"
"Complicated. His father is still hovering. Still disapproving. Still making noises about separating us."
"Has he tried anything since the internship thing?"
"Not yet. But I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"Maybe there is no other shoe. Maybe he's done."
"You don't believe that any more than I do."
"No," she admitted. "But I wish I did."
My phone buzzed. Bok-Jin.
Bok-Jin: My father wants to have dinner with me tomorrow night. "Important family discussion." I'm dreading it.
Me: What do you think it's about?
Bok-Jin: Probably more pressure about my future. And probably more complaints about you.
Me: Fun.
Bok-Jin: I'll call you after. I'm going to need to vent.
Me: I'll be here.
I set my phone down and tried not to worry.
But I'd learned to trust my instincts. And my instincts said something was coming.
Something that would test whether love was actually enough.
Friday evening, I tried to distract myself while Bok-Jin was at dinner with his father.
I worked on my literature review for the thesis. Reviewed material for next week's classes. Helped Min-Ji study for her vet school exam.
At 8:30 PM, my phone rang. Bok-Jin.
"How bad?" I answered.
"Bad. Really bad." He sounded shaken. "My father has a plan for my future. And it doesn't include you."
"What kind of plan?"
"MBA abroad. He's already researching programs. Says it's 'essential for my development' and 'necessary for taking on leadership roles in the company.'"
"When?"
"After graduation. Next summer. Two years at a program in the US or Europe, then return to Hansung in a senior position."
"That's... actually not a terrible career move."
"It's a terrible relationship move. Two years apart? When you'll be in law school here? That's not a plan, that's a separation strategy."
"Maybe it's just a career plan."
"It's both. He made that clear. He said, and I quote, 'This will give you time to mature and reconsider your current attachments.'"
"'Current attachments.' Very romantic."
"He wants us to break up. He's creating circumstances that force it."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know. If I refuse, he'll cut me off. If I go, we're apart for two years and who knows what happens." He paused. "What do you think I should do?"
"I can't make that decision for you."
"But I want to know what you think."
"I think..." I took a breath. "I think you should do what's right for your future. Even if that means going abroad. Even if that means we're apart."
"You want me to leave?"
"I don't want you to resent me. And if you turn down opportunities because of me, eventually you will."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't fair. We've both learned that."
We talked for another hour, going in circles, not reaching any conclusions.
When we finally hung up, I felt exhausted.
This was what his father wanted. To wear us down. To make the relationship so complicated and painful that we'd eventually just give up.
And I was terrified it was working.