October arrived with midterms, application deadlines, and the first real cold of autumn.
I was drowning in coursework.
Between Advanced Constitutional Law, Environmental Law and Policy, Business Law, International Law, and Professor Kwon's Constitutional Theory seminar, I was taking twenty-one credit hours. Add in twenty hours of tutoring per week, thesis research, and law school applications, and I was averaging four hours of sleep.
"You look terrible," Min-Ji said one morning, finding me at the kitchen table surrounded by textbooks at 6 AM.
"Business Law midterm today. Environmental Law paper due tomorrow. Constitutional Theory presentation Friday. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're going to collapse."
"I'll collapse after midterms."
"That's not healthy."
"Nothing about senior year is healthy. This is just survival."
She poured me more coffee and didn't argue. She understood. Vet school was equally brutal.
At 8 AM, I headed to campus for Business Law. The class was taught by Professor Nam, a former corporate lawyer who'd worked at major firms before going into academia.
"Today we're discussing corporate governance and fiduciary duties," he announced. "Specifically, the tension between shareholder interests and stakeholder interests. Who can tell me what that means?"
Several hands went up. I raised mine.
"Ms. Han?"
"Shareholder theory says corporate directors have a fiduciary duty to maximize shareholder value. Stakeholder theory says they should consider employees, communities, environment—all parties affected by corporate decisions."
"Correct. And which approach does Korean law favor?"
"Officially shareholder primacy, but there's growing recognition of stakeholder considerations, especially in ESG frameworks."
"Good. Now, let's discuss a case study."
He projected a scenario on the screen—a company choosing between maximizing short-term profits or investing in environmental improvements that would cost money now but benefit long-term sustainability.
The class debated for forty minutes. Some argued fiduciary duty required profit maximization. Others argued sustainability was good long-term strategy. I argued that environmental externalities should be internalized as costs.
"Interesting perspective, Ms. Han," Professor Nam said. "You're essentially arguing for regulatory frameworks that force corporations to account for environmental impact."
"Exactly. Without regulation, there's no incentive to prioritize sustainability over profit."
"Which brings us to environmental law and its intersection with corporate law."
After class, Seung-Ho caught up with me.
"That was a good argument. The regulatory framework point."
"Thanks. It's related to my thesis research."
"What's your thesis on?"
"Constitutional basis for environmental rights."
"Ambitious. Very you." He adjusted his bag. "Are you applying to law schools?"
"Yeah. You?"
"SNU, Korea University, Yonsei. The usual suspects."
"Same. Plus some backup options."
"Your LEET score was higher than mine. You'll probably get in everywhere."
"We'll see. Scores aren't everything."
"They're most things." He paused. "Good luck. I mean it."
"Thanks. You too."
He walked away, and I marveled again at his character development. A year ago he'd been sabotaging my work. Now he was wishing me luck.
People could change. Sometimes.
Wednesday morning running club was small—cold weather and midterm season meant sparse attendance.
"Just us and a few diehards," Bok-Jin observed as we warmed up.
"I like it. Quieter."
"How are midterms going?"
"Terrible. I have three exams this week and two papers due. I'm barely sleeping."
"When's your next free evening?"
"Define free. I have tutoring most evenings, and when I'm not tutoring I'm studying or writing."
"So no free evenings."
"Not until after midterms. Maybe next week?"
"Next week works." He was quiet for a moment. "I submitted my MBA applications."
My heart sank. "All of them?"
"Stanford, Harvard, Wharton, and INSEAD. My father insisted on all four."
"When will you hear back?"
"March or April. But early decision for Stanford is December."
"That's soon."
"I know."
We ran in silence, and I tried to process. He'd applied. It was real. He might actually leave.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Just... processing."
"I'm sorry. I know this complicates things."
"It's fine. You're doing what you need to do."
"But?"
"But it means we're on a timer now. If you get in somewhere, you'll leave next summer. That's eight months away."
"A lot can happen in eight months."
"Like what? Your father suddenly approving of me? Him changing his mind about separating us?"
"Maybe I don't go. Even if I get in."
"If you don't go, he'll cut you off. You'll lose everything."
"Maybe that's okay."
"It's not okay. It's stupid and romantic and impractical."
"Since when are you the practical one?"
"Since I've watched my family struggle with money my whole life. I know exactly what you'd be giving up. And I'm not worth that."
"You are worth that."
"I'm not. And you'll resent me eventually if you sacrifice everything for me."
We finished the run in tense silence and skipped the coffee after. Both of us had places to be, things to do, conversations to avoid.
Thursday afternoon, Environmental Law and Policy class focused on climate change litigation.
Professor Lee, a former environmental lawyer who'd worked on major pollution cases, was passionate about the topic.
"The question isn't whether climate change is happening," she said. "The question is whether legal systems can provide meaningful remedies. Who can tell me about the major barriers to climate litigation?"
I raised my hand. "Standing requirements. Causation difficulties. Political question doctrine. Courts are hesitant to impose remedies that require massive policy changes."
"Exactly. So how do we overcome these barriers?"
"Strengthen standing rules for environmental plaintiffs. Focus on concrete, localized harms rather than global climate impacts. Use state constitutional provisions that provide stronger environmental protections than federal law."
"Good. These are strategies that have had some success." She pulled up a case. "Let's discuss the Youth Climate Case in Montana—"
We spent the rest of class analyzing the case, and I took detailed notes. This was directly relevant to my thesis. If US state courts could recognize constitutional environmental rights, that supported my argument that such rights had textual and theoretical grounding.
After class, Professor Lee asked me to stay.
"Ms. Han, I heard you're writing a senior thesis on constitutional environmental rights."
"Yes, Professor. With Professor Kwon advising."
"That's excellent. I'd like to be on your thesis committee if you're open to it. My background in environmental litigation might be useful."
"That would be amazing. Thank you."
"Good. Send me your proposal and first chapter when you have them. I'm happy to provide feedback."
Walking out, I felt energized. Two faculty members excited about my work. This thesis could actually be something significant.
If I could find time to actually write it.
Friday evening, I had my Constitutional Theory seminar presentation.
Twelve students, Professor Kwon, discussing theories of constitutional interpretation. My topic: "Living Constitutionalism and Environmental Rights."
I'd prepared a twenty-minute presentation arguing that living constitutionalism provided theoretical support for recognizing environmental rights even without explicit constitutional text.
"The Constitution's due process clause protects life and liberty," I argued. "Life requires a livable environment. Liberty requires freedom from harm caused by environmental degradation. Therefore, environmental protection is constitutionally grounded even without explicit environmental provisions."
"Counter-argument?" Professor Kwon prompted.
Seung-Ho raised his hand. "Originalists would say the founders didn't intend to protect environmental rights. We can't read modern concerns into historical text."
"Response, Ms. Han?"
"Originalism applied consistently would eliminate most modern constitutional rights. Privacy rights aren't explicitly mentioned. Equal protection has been extended far beyond original understanding. Either we accept that constitutional meaning evolves, or we abandon most of modern constitutional law."
The debate continued for ninety minutes. By the end, I was exhausted but satisfied. I'd held my own against twelve smart students and a brilliant professor.
After class, Professor Kwon pulled me aside.
"Excellent presentation. Your argument is getting sharper."
"Thank you. Professor Lee from Environmental Law wants to be on my committee."
"Perfect. She'll provide practical perspective to complement my theoretical focus." She pulled out her calendar. "Let's meet weekly this semester. Tuesdays at 3 PM. Bring whatever you're working on and we'll discuss."
"Every week?"
"Your thesis needs to be excellent. Publishable. That requires regular feedback and revision. Can you commit to that?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
Walking out of the law building at 8 PM, I felt simultaneously accomplished and overwhelmed.
My thesis was developing well. My classes were challenging but manageable. My applications were progressing.
But I was also exhausted, stressed, and increasingly aware that everything with Bok-Jin was temporary.
Saturday I spent the entire day on law school applications.
SNU's application required three essays: personal statement, diversity statement, and "why SNU Law" statement.
The diversity statement was tricky. I didn't want to center my poverty—that felt exploitative. But I also couldn't ignore that being a scholarship student from a working-class background shaped my perspective on law and justice.
Growing up in a family where legal resources were inaccessible taught me that the law is not neutral. It serves those who can afford lawyers, who understand procedures, who have time and money to fight. I want to practice law in a way that challenges this inequity...
Better. Focused on perspective and goals rather than just hardship.
The "why SNU" statement was easier. Best law school in Korea. Excellent environmental law faculty. Strong placement in public interest positions.
By evening, I had complete drafts for SNU's application.
Yoo-Na read them and said, "These are good. You sound smart and passionate."
"Is that enough?"
"With your LEET score and grades? Probably."
"I hate that everything comes down to probably."
"That's life. Uncertainty disguised as process."
Min-Ji made dinner while I started on Korea University's essays. Their prompts were different—more focused on leadership and community impact.
My phone buzzed. Bok-Jin.
Bok-Jin: How are applications going?
Me: Exhausting but progressing. Finished SNU drafts today.
Bok-Jin: That's great! Want to celebrate? I could bring food.
Me: Can't tonight. Need to work on Korea University essays. Tomorrow?
Bok-Jin: I have family obligation tomorrow. Sunday?
Me: Sunday works if I finish Korea University essays by then.
Bok-Jin: You'll finish. You always do. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I set my phone down and felt the distance between us. Not physical distance—emotional distance. Created by stress and applications and his father's constant pressure.
"You okay?" Yoo-Na asked.
"Just tired."
"You're allowed to take breaks. Have a life."
"I'll have a life after applications are submitted."
"That's in two months."
"Then I'll have a life in two months."
Sunday afternoon I finally finished Korea University's application.
Bok-Jin came over around 4 PM with takeout and sympathy.
"You look exhausted," he said.
"I am exhausted. But I finished two complete applications. Six more to go."
"That's progress."
We ate on the couch while a drama played in the background—neither of us really watching, both too tired to do anything but exist together.
"My father asked about you again," he said eventually.
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I was 'still distracted by that relationship' or if I was 'focusing appropriately on my future.'"
"And you said?"
"I said my personal life was my business. He said everything is business when you're a Choi. Same conversation we always have."
"Does he know you submitted MBA applications?"
"Yes. He seemed pleased. Probably thinks it means I'm choosing career over you."
"Are you?"
"I'm choosing not to be disowned before I graduate. That's different from choosing career over you."
"Is it though?"
"Yes. Because if I get into Stanford and decide to go, it's not because I'm leaving you. It's because refusing would cost me everything and accomplish nothing."
"But the result is the same. You leave, we're apart, your father wins."
"He doesn't win. We'll figure it out."
"How? Long distance for two years while I'm in law school and you're getting an MBA? That's not realistic."
"Why not?"
"Because long distance is hard. And your father will use the distance to push us further apart. And eventually one of us will break."
"You're very pessimistic about this."
"I'm being realistic."
"Realistic or giving up before we even try?"
I didn't have an answer to that.
We finished eating in silence, and I felt something shifting between us. Not breaking yet—but cracking. Getting ready to break.
"I should go," he said around 6 PM. "Let you work on applications."
"Okay."
"Ji-Mang?"
"Yeah?"
"We're going to be okay. Whatever happens."
"I hope so."
But I wasn't sure I believed it anymore.
Monday morning I woke up to an email from Professor Kwon.
Ms. Han,
I reviewed your first chapter draft. It's excellent foundational work, but you need to strengthen your argument in Section 3. Let's discuss Tuesday at our regular meeting. Also, have you considered presenting this research at the Spring Legal Conference? I think it would be well-received.
Professor Kwon
A legal conference. Presenting my research. That would look incredible on law school applications.
It was also one more thing to add to an already overwhelming schedule.
But I emailed back: Yes, I'd love to present. Thank you for the opportunity.
Because this was what I wanted. To be taken seriously as a legal scholar. To produce work worth presenting and publishing.
Even if it meant sacrificing sleep and social life and possibly my relationship.
This was the path I'd chosen. I just had to see it through.