Everything feels the right size for me today. The chair fits my legs, even though my feet still don't touch the floor. The paper fits my hands. The room fits my voice. I sit on the edge of the chair with the script in my lap.
They call it "lines," but it looks like a story page from a book, except there are spaces and names at the side.
The paper is warm because I've been holding it for a while. The edges are a little soft now.
The waiting room is quieter than before.
Not empty.
Just settled.
The other children are gone. The chairs look bigger without them. The air feels slower, like it's resting. My mother sits beside me. She doesn't talk. She smooths the corner of her bag with her thumb over and over again.
My father stands near the wall, reading nothing on his phone. Park Jiwon stands by the door, her hands folded in front of her. I watch all of them. They are calm. So I am calm too.
A woman opens the door and looks at me.
"Han Yura." She said.
Her voice is gentle, like she already knows me a little. I stand up. The script slides a bit in my hands, so I hold it tighter. My mother stands with me, but she doesn't touch me. She just looks.
"You'll be right outside." The woman said to her. My mother nods.
I like that no one rushes. I walk toward the door. My shoes make a small sound on the floor.
Tap.
Tap.
It sounds loud to me. Inside, the room is brighter than the waiting room. The lights are soft, but they point in one direction. Toward the middle. There is a camera. It is on a stand, with three legs spread out like it's balancing carefully. The lens is round and dark, but not shiny.
It looks like an eye that isn't blinking.
I don't feel scared of it. I feel like it's listening. There are four adults in the room. Three sit behind a table. One stands near the camera, adjusting something quietly.
They all look at me when I come in. Not at the same time. One by one.
Like they are taking turns.
"Hello, Yura." A man said.
"Hello." I said.
My voice sounds clear. They ask me to stand on the tape again. The tape is still blue. It hasn't moved. That makes me feel steady. I stand. The paper in my hands feels heavier now. "Whenever you're ready." The woman said.
I nod.
I look down at the page.
The words are simple. A child is talking to her mother. She wants to go somewhere. She doesn't want to be late. I understand that. I've felt that before.
I lift my head.
The camera is in front of me.
I look at it. The lens doesn't move. It doesn't feel like staring. It feels like waiting. I decide to talk to it like it's a person who doesn't interrupt. I take a breath. The air goes in my nose and feels cool.
Then I start.
My voice comes out the way it always does. Not louder. Not quieter. Just right.
I don't try to sound like anyone else. I sound like me. I look at the camera when the words feel important. I look down when I need to remember the next line. I don't rush. The room is very still.
I can hear the paper when I turn it.
I can hear someone shift in their chair.
I can hear my own breathing.
That makes me feel real. There is a part where the child gets upset. Not crying. Just upset. I remember when my shoelace broke at school and I couldn't fix it. I remember how my chest felt tight and how my voice felt small. I let that happen.
My voice changes a little. I don't think about it. It just does. The camera stays still. It feels friendly.
Like it's holding the moment so it doesn't fall.
When I finish, I stop talking. I don't bow right away. I wait. The room stays quiet for one more second. Then the woman smiles. "Thank you." She said. The man next to her nods slowly.
Another man writes something down. The woman near the camera looks at me and smiles too, like she liked watching. I bow. It feels natural. "Can you try it once more?" The man asked.
"Okay." I said.
This time, they ask me to do it a little differently.
"Imagine you're very tired. But you still want to go." The woman said. I think about when I want to stay up, but my eyes feel heavy. I nod. I start again.
My shoulders drop a little.
My words come out slower.
I blink more. I feel it in my body. The camera doesn't change. It still feels nice. Like it's helping me remember. When I finish, the man lets out a small breath. Not loud. But I hear it.
"Thank you." He said again.
"That's enough."
I bow again.
This time, my heart bumps once. Just once. Then it settles. Outside, my mother is waiting. She looks at my face. Her eyes soften. "How was it?" She asked quietly. "Good." I said. She smiles. Not big. Just enough. Park Jiwon nods to me.
"You did well." She said.
I like that she doesn't say more. We don't leave right away. They ask us to wait again. The waiting room feels different now. Smaller. Like I already know it. I sit in the same chair as before.
My legs swing.
I don't stop them this time. Junseo isn't there. I think about him for a moment. I wonder if he's already gone home. I wonder if he cried again.
The door opens. The woman from before steps out. She looks at Park Jiwon. "Can we speak for a moment?" She asked.
She nods.
They step aside.
They talk quietly.
I don't hear the words. I watch their faces. They are calm. Focused. I feel like something is happening, but I don't know what yet. My mother puts her hand on my knee. It is warm. That makes everything else fade a little.
—
On the way home, the car feels soft. The seat hugs my back. The window shows buildings sliding past. I don't talk much.
No one asks me to.
That feels good.
I hold the script in my lap. I trace the letters with my finger. They look smaller now. Like they already belong to me. Park Jiwon speaks from the front seat. "They may call." She said. "Or they may not."
My parents nod.
I nod too. Either way feels okay.
I look out the window. My reflection looks back at me. I smile at it. Not because I have to. Just because I want to. The reflection smiles back. I think about the camera. I think about how it didn't feel scary. How it felt like someone was paying attention. I like that feeling.
I lean my head against the window. The glass is cool. The city keeps moving. And I sit there, quiet and awake, holding the feeling so it doesn't disappear.