September arrived with cooler weather and mounting pressure.
I spent my mornings in classes—Advanced Constitutional Law, Environmental Law and Policy, International Law, and Professor Kwon's Constitutional Theory seminar. My afternoons were split between tutoring sessions and library time working on my thesis literature review.
My evenings were consumed by law school application research.
"There are so many essays," I complained to Min-Ji one night, staring at my laptop. "Personal statement, diversity statement, 'why this school' statements, optional essays about challenges I've overcome—"
"How many schools are you applying to?"
"Eight. SNU, Korea University, and Yonsei are my top three. Then five backup options."
"That's a lot of essays."
"That's a lot of money, too. Application fees add up." I did the math again. "About 800,000 won total. Plus I need professional headshots for applications, transcript fees, more LEET score reports—"
"Do you have enough saved?"
"Barely. The tutoring helps but I'm cutting it close." I closed my laptop. "How's vet school?"
"Exhausting. I have a surgery rotation starting next week. I'm going to be sleep-deprived for a month."
"We're both going to be disasters this semester."
"At least we'll be disasters together."
Yoo-Na came home around 9 PM looking frustrated. Again.
"Min-Woo?" I asked.
"My father. He's planning a 'family business reception' in October. Wants me to attend. Wants me to 'network appropriately' which is code for 'be nice to Min-Woo.'"
"Can you say no?"
"Not without creating drama I don't have energy for." She collapsed onto the couch. "Six more months. I graduate in February. Then I'm free."
"What are you going to do after graduation?"
"I got a job offer. Brand strategy position at an entertainment company. It's not my father's world at all. He doesn't know yet."
"When are you going to tell him?"
"After I graduate and sign the contract. When it's too late for him to interfere."
"That's very strategic."
"I learned from the best. My father taught me to always have a plan B." She smiled bitterly. "He just didn't expect me to use it against him."
Wednesday morning running club, Bok-Jin seemed distracted.
"You okay?" I asked as we ran.
"My father's been sending me MBA program information. Stanford, Harvard, Wharton, INSEAD. All the top programs."
"Are you applying?"
"I don't know. He wants me to apply to the US programs specifically. 'Better networking opportunities' and 'stronger international perspective.'"
"Translation: farther away from me."
"Basically." He was quiet for a moment. "What if I don't go? What if I just refuse?"
"Then he cuts you off and you have to figure out your career independently."
"Would that be so bad?"
"I don't know. Would it?"
"I've never had to support myself. Never had to worry about money or connections or any of it. Maybe I should try."
"That's a romantic notion but practically difficult."
"Since when are you the practical one?"
"Since I've been poor my whole life and know exactly how hard it is."
We ran in silence for a while, and I felt the weight of our different worlds. He could romanticize independence because he'd never experienced it. I knew what it actually meant—stress, scarcity, constant calculation of every won spent.
After the run, Ji-Yeon caught up with me.
"Unnie, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How do you know if you're making the right decisions? About your future?"
"That's a big question for a Wednesday morning."
"I know, but everyone keeps asking me about my plans. What I want to do after graduation. And I don't know. I thought I wanted to be a lawyer, but now I'm not sure. What if I choose wrong?"
"There's no one right choice. Just different paths with different outcomes."
"But what if I pick the wrong path?"
"Then you adjust. People change careers all the time. You're not locked into one decision forever." I looked at her. "Why are you worried about this now? You're only a first-year."
"My parents keep asking. They want me to have a plan. But I'm still figuring out what I even like."
"Then tell them you're exploring options. You don't need to have everything figured out at nineteen."
"Did you have everything figured out at nineteen?"
"God, no. I knew I wanted to do something with law, but I didn't know what exactly. I'm still figuring it out."
"Really? But you seem so... certain about everything."
"That's just good acting."
She laughed, and some of the tension left her face. "Thanks, unnie. That actually helps."
After she left, Bok-Jin appeared with coffee.
"You're good with her," he observed. "The mentoring thing."
"She reminds me of me. Anxious about the future, trying to make all the right choices."
"And you tell her it's okay to not have everything figured out."
"Because it is okay."
"Do you believe that? For yourself?"
"I'm working on it."
Thursday afternoon I submitted my ten-page literature review to Professor Kwon.
She emailed me back three hours later: Excellent preliminary work. Let's discuss next steps. My office, Monday 2 PM.
Friday, Bok-Jin and I had our first real date in weeks—dinner at a quiet restaurant far from campus, far from anywhere his father's people might see us.
"This is nice," I said. "Just being normal."
"Define normal."
"Eating dinner without worrying about who's watching. Talking without carefully editing everything we say. Existing without constant anxiety."
"So basically impossible?"
"Apparently."
We ordered too much food and talked about safer topics—my thesis research, his business strategy class, the running club's plan for a fall competition.
"Are you going to do it?" he asked. "The competition?"
"Probably. It's fun and I need to do something that isn't academic."
"Want to train together? Like we did last time?"
"Yeah. That'd be good."
The food arrived, and we ate in comfortable silence for a while.
"Can I tell you something?" he said eventually.
"Always."
"I'm scared. About the future. About us. About everything."
"Me too."
"Really? You always seem so certain."
"That's just good acting. I'm constantly terrified I'm making wrong choices."
"Like what?"
"Like staying with you when your father actively opposes us. Like spending time on this relationship when I should be focused entirely on law school applications. Like letting myself love you when I know how much it's going to hurt if we don't make it."
"Those are very specific fears."
"I've had time to catalog them."
He reached across the table and took my hand. "I'm scared too. But I don't regret this. Us. Even with all the complications."
"Ask me again in six months."
"You think we won't make it six months?"
"I think a lot can happen in six months."
We finished dinner and walked slowly back to his car. The evening was cool, autumn settling in, and I tried to memorize the moment. His hand in mine, the city lights, the feeling of being together despite everything.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"That I wish we could stay in this moment. Before applications and decisions and whatever your father does next."
"We'll handle it. Whatever comes."
"You're very optimistic."
"One of us has to be."
He drove me home and we sat in the car outside my building for a long time, not wanting the evening to end.
"I love you," he said quietly.
"I love you too."
"No matter what happens? You know that?"
"I know that."
But I also knew love wasn't always enough. And that terrified me more than I wanted to admit.
The weekend was consumed by law school applications.
I drafted and redrafted my personal statement—the essay that was supposed to capture who I was and why I deserved admission to competitive programs.
I grew up understanding that opportunity was something you fought for, not something you inherited. As the oldest of five children in a working-class family, I learned early that education was the only reliable path to economic mobility...
Delete. Too much about poverty, not enough about passion for law.
My interest in environmental law began when I realized that the communities most affected by environmental harm are those least able to fight back legally. I want to be part of changing that...
Better. More focused on law, less on personal struggle.
By Sunday evening, I had a draft I didn't completely hate.
Min-Ji read it and said it was "very you—smart and intense and slightly overwhelming."
"Is overwhelming good?"
"For law school admissions? Probably."
Yoo-Na read it and said, "You need to make yourself sound more impressive. You're too modest."
"I don't want to sound arrogant."
"There's a difference between arrogant and confident. Right now you sound apologetic for existing. Stop apologizing."
I revised again, taking her feedback. Made my accomplishments sound like achievements rather than lucky accidents. Emphasized my leadership in running club, my paper award, my LEET score.
By Monday morning, I had a personal statement that sounded like someone deserving of admission to top law schools.
Whether that person was actually me remained to be seen.
Monday afternoon, I met with Professor Kwon.
"Your literature review is excellent," she said. "You've identified the key scholars, the major debates, the gaps in existing research. This is publishable-quality work."
"Thank you."
"Now comes the hard part. You need to develop your own argument. What's your thesis? What are you actually claiming?"
"That environmental rights could be grounded in constitutional principles of substantive due process and the right to life."
"That's a claim, but it needs refining. What specifically are you arguing? That courts should recognize these rights? That the Constitution already protects them but courts haven't acknowledged it? That we need constitutional amendments?"
I thought about it. "That the Constitution already provides textual and theoretical support for environmental rights, but courts have failed to recognize this because of narrow interpretation of due process and life rights."
"Better. Much better. That's a defensible thesis with clear arguments." She made notes. "You'll need to address counter-arguments. Originalists will say there's no historical basis. Textualists will say environmental rights aren't mentioned. How do you respond?"
"Comparative constitutional law. Other democracies have recognized environmental rights through similar constitutional provisions. And US courts have recognized unenumerated rights before—privacy, for example."
"Good. Start building those arguments. I want a twenty-page draft of your first chapter by November 1st."
"That's only five weeks."
"You can handle it. You're one of my strongest students."
Walking out of her office, I felt energized and terrified. A publishable thesis. That was the goal. That was what would make me stand out in law school applications.
I just had to actually write it while maintaining my GPA, working twenty hours a week, applying to eight law schools, and navigating a relationship with someone whose father was actively trying to separate us.
No pressure at all.
That evening, Bok-Jin called sounding stressed.
"My father wants an answer about the MBA applications. He says if I'm serious about my future, I should be applying to early decision programs."
"Are you?"
"I don't know. Applying means committing to leaving. Not applying means confronting him."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want to stay here. With you. Finish my degree, figure out what I actually want from life, not just what he wants from me."
"But?"
"But I also know that's not realistic. He controls my tuition, my housing, my future job prospects. If I refuse him, I lose all of that."
"So you're going to apply."
"I think I have to. I just don't know if I'm actually going to go if I get in."
"That seems like a problem to defer until you have an acceptance letter."
"Practical advice. Very unlike you."
"I'm learning to be practical. It's a survival skill."
We talked for another hour, and I tried to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.
He was going to apply to MBA programs abroad. Which meant he was seriously considering leaving.
Which meant maybe I needed to start preparing for what that would mean.
For us. For our future. For whether we even had one.