​I prepared everything down to the last detail for my departure. The visa, the clothes, the vital documents, all of it shadowed by a persistent worry that something important would be left behind. I was headed somewhere distant and foreign for a long time, carrying the haunting uncertainty of whether I would ever truly return to my hometown. Though I promised myself I would make every effort to see my parents again, whether they traveled to me or I returned to them-the spark of excitement was missing. There was no thrill, no rush of adrenaline.

​Instead, I was consumed by a job I couldn't leave until the very day I departed. It wasn't out of blind loyalty; I simply loved the work, and I desperately needed the money for an emergency fund. I had heard that i don't receive monthly allowance for at least three months, not until your residency card and bank account are finalized. Only then does the backpay arrive in a single lump sum. I was leaving the best work environment I had ever known, surrounded by people so positive it felt rare. Yet, this was my choice.

​Studying abroad had been the target of my life since I was a child. At least, it was the dream I knew; I wasn't sure what dreams would be left once I actually achieved it. Because of our limited means and the fact that I didn't consider myself particularly "smart"-at least compared to others-I always saw my own flaws clearly. It wasn't insecurity; it was a cold realization of my own capabilities. If I reached this point, it was only because I had poured every ounce of my strength and mind into it, sacrificing time itself. But that is life.

​My parents didn't have the money to fund their child's life abroad. They apologized for it, though they didn't need to. My basic needs had always been met, and that was enough. A Master's degree is not a necessity; it is an optional path I chose for myself. My parents supported every choice I made, provided it was positive. We discussed everything; the risks, the "what ifs." My openness with them built a bridge of trust, and that is why they were ready to let me go.

​Then there was my boss, a woman who had become like a second mother to me. When I first started my career, I kept my private life guarded. But eventually, a moment came where I felt I could trust her with my story. Our visions aligned; she knew I was pursuing further education to sharpen the skills I used in my work, and that I would return to this field. She wanted to contribute, asking how she could help with my preparations. I told her it wasn't necessary. But ironically, in a moment of talkative honesty, I let it slip that I hadn't secured my plane ticket yet. I could have paid for it with my savings, but she stepped in and insisted on covering it. It was a grace I felt I had earned through my hard work.

​I was never one for "playing." I spent most of my time at home. That didn't mean I lacked friends; at twenty-four, I still held onto bonds formed in kindergarten, middle school, high school, and college. I didn't have a "squad," just one or maybe three close confidants at most. I value depth over frequency. If we couldn't meet for a year due to the circumstances of life, it didn't mean the bond was broken.

​I have never been in a relationship; I simply don't know what romance feels like. I am neither brilliant nor foolish, so I filled my abundant time with productivity-though not always. I had my bouts of laziness, too. I am, after all, just a standard human being who happened to find themselves in the best environments. I chose friends who challenged me to grow. In elementary school, I felt like the slowest learner in the room. By middle school, I pushed into an accelerated program, ranking in the top three and earning a spot at the best high school in the city. There, surrounded by elite peers, I felt like the "dumbest" one again. I never ranked high naturally; it was only through sheer willpower in my final years that I climbed the ladder. But I realized something: I couldn't do it alone. I needed a study partner who was smarter than me, someone to pull me up to a level just a step below theirs.

The farewell with my parents and a few friends was calm. Everyone seemed happy; there were no grand displays of grief or tearful scenes. But later, a friend told me that my mother had broken down in tears only after I had disappeared from sight at the airport.

​"You are a brave person," my mother had told me. "I believe in you. Whatever problems arise, you will always find a way out." I believed her. And I believed in myself.

​Finally, I set foot in a country I had never visited-the farthest I had ever traveled from home. Everything was alien: the script on the signs, the homogenous faces of the people, the etiquette, the language, and the food I had only ever seen on a television screen. I arrived a week before classes began to adjust and take a brief "vacation." It was my birthday week. I felt as though the universe was conspiring to give me a gift, supporting me on my special day.

​Even if, in that moment, I felt entirely alone.

The country felt like a dream. As was my habit, I navigated my first few days as a tourist, wading through the inevitable struggles and the sharp stings of culture shock. Eventually, I met a friend from my country who helped me navigate the labyrinth of the admission process in the city where I was to study. We had exchanged several messages, as had a senior from the lab where I'd be stationed.

​I arrived at the dormitory, the wheels of my suitcase rattling against the pavement as my friend helped me push my belongings toward the entrance. There, I met the senior. He guided me through the administrative fog until, finally, the weight of a room key settled in my palm. He introduced me to a researcher who, despite being a year older, was in the same academic year as I am. We shared a brief, polite conversation as he led me to the lab-our future workplace-and pointed out the desk that would be mine.

​"We're all having dinner together tonight," the senior invited. "A few other students will be joining us. It would be a good chance for you to meet everyone."

​"That sounds great. I'll be there," I replied.

​"Perfect. The others will pick you up at the dorm, and we'll meet at the restaurant," he said, his parting words a simple, "See you then."

​I waited in front of the dormitory, watching the flow of students until I spotted a group approaching. A familiar hand waved in the air. I joined them, and we began the walk to the restaurant. The conversation was easy-basic questions about age, MBTI types, and the usual small talk that serves as a social lubricant. Then came the question: "Do you have a partner?"

​In this country, it was a standard icebreaker, a cultural staple of introductions, but to me, it felt jarringly private. Still, I brushed it off with my usual indifference. "I've never been in a relationship," I said simply.

​A girl arrived late, breathless and laughing. "Sorry I'm late! I had to get ready and do my makeup," she chirped. She was strikingly vibrant, a stark contrast to the other local students I had met, who tended to be reserved, almost icy in their stiffness. To me, the local persona seemed rooted in introversion and shyness, but she was the exception. We ate, and afterward, we crowded into a photo booth to take pictures together-a quintessential rite of passage for students hanging out in this culture.

​My first few days in the dormitory were solitary. The room was designed for two, yet my roommate had not appeared by the second day, even with the start of the semester looming. I found myself wishing he would arrive; it would have been more exciting to shop for essentials with a foreign friend. My peers recommended I visit the downtown area, as it was the only real landmark in our small town. So, I went alone.

​I was accustomed to solo wandering. I often found it more comfortable; there was no need to negotiate an itinerary or waste time on someone else's whims. As evening fell over downtown, I prepared to head back to the dorm. Suddenly, a tap landed on my shoulder.

​"Are you a foreigner?"

​The man spoke English with a startling fluency, devoid of the local accent.

​"Yes," I replied, curious. "Is something the matter?"

​"Nice to meet you! I'm working on a project for my graduation. Would you mind helping me by filling out a questionnaire?"

​"Sure, of course."

​"Could I get your contact info?"

​I paused. "What for?"

​"Oh, it's nothing-I just don't have the forms ready yet. I'll send the link to your phone once I have it."

​"Alright," I said, handing over my number.

​"Are you a student? Or just visiting?" he asked, his eyes bright with interest.

​"I'm a student."

​"Then you'll be here for a while, right?" He seemed hopeful.

​"I just got here, so yes."

​"Great. I'll get in touch. Where are you headed? I can give you a lift."

​"No need to trouble yourself, I'm just heading home. Though, my transport card just snapped, so I need to buy a new one before I can catch the bus."

​"Let me help you with that." He was unusually warm for a local man, his face settled into a constant, kind smile. He assisted me with the purchase, bridging the gap between my limited vocabulary and the local language. Before I reached the bus stop, he called out to me.

​"Can we meet again? I'm interested in practicing my English with you-maybe we could do a language exchange?"

​I simply smiled and nodded, then ran to catch the bus as it pulled up. During the ride, I turned the idea over in my head. Having a speaking partner seemed like a good way to gain insight into the local culture and master a new tongue. I made it home safely, and soon after, a message lit up my screen.

​"Hi. It's me, remember? Kim Tae-Hyung. I hope you saved my number!"

​I typed back: "Hi, of course I remember. Thanks for helping me. Can you send the questionnaire? I'll look it over. And I think I am interested in the language exchange."

​I hit send and waited for the reply.

My first day at the lab felt like the true beginning. After the introductions, the other students invited me for lunch. As we walked toward the restaurant, I noticed a striking girl and the male student I had met earlier walking closely together, their rapport obvious.

​Sully, a senior I had met during my first dinner, nudged me from behind.

"They look close, don't they? Isn't it strange?"

​"It happens," I replied simply. "I have close female friends, too."

​Sully shook her head. "No way. A man and a woman can't just be friends-there's always something going on. Is it really that free in your country? Here, it's different." She then called out,

"Hyein! Stop talking to your boyfriend!" It seemed my observation was right; Hyein and Munhyeok were indeed a couple.

​During lunch, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Taehyung, whom I hadn't heard from in two days.

​"Sorry, I lost my phone the day we met. We promised to meet near our school. Can we meet on Friday? I have to meet my grandparents because they are coming today from the countryside."

​He followed up with: "up for my paper anymore! I also like to learn English and Korean with you." And then: "Questionnaire is okay because my professor told me I don't have to make it anymore."

​I was confused. Why the sudden change of heart? Was the questionnaire just an excuse to meet me? I didn't necessarily think he was hitting on me, but some international friends had warned me to be cautious. Lately, there had been talk about cults targeting foreigners to increase their followers. I had only intended to help with his study, and now I felt a flicker of suspicion.

​By the fourth day, my roommate finally arrived. His name is Huen, and he apologized for the delay, explaining he had unfinished business back home. I helped him unbox his things and showed him around the dormitory. We grabbed a meal at the cafeteria and went shopping for his essentials. Though he was a massive introvert at first, he turned out to be quite the chatterbox once he got comfortable.

​Later that week, I met Taehyung at a cafe near campus. Everything seemed normal. He taught me new Korean words and asked me to translate them into English as a learning exercise. Curiously, he didn't ask me for help with his English at all. His English was already excellent-far better than most locals I had met. I figured he just wanted someone to converse with.

​"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-four. And you?"

"Twenty-seven. Let's use 'Global Age,'" he said, referring to the local culture of adding a year to one's age from birth, they believed that someone has alive once in the mother's womb.

"In that case, should I call you Sunbae?" I asked, using the term for a senior.

"Hahaha, Sunbae is too formal," he laughed, his eyes crinkling until they nearly closed. "How about Hyung?"

"Alright, Hyung," I agreed.

"Kiyowo," he muttered. "That means cute. You're cute." He seemed genuinely delighted the moment I used the word Hyung.

"Did I say something wrong?" I asked, puzzled but smiling.

"You just have nice eyes," he replied. "Bigger than mine."

​He then changed the subject. "Spring is starting. Do you want to see the cherry blossoms together?"

"That sounds interesting. I've never seen them in person before. We only have two seasons back home."

"Great. A friend from my church goes to this university too-can I invite him? He lived in America for a long time, so communication won't be a problem. It's good to make more friends."

"Sure," I said. "But... isn't seeing cherry blossoms usually a 'couple' thing? Aren't you going with your girlfriend?"

"My girlfriend is busy," he said quickly. "I'll arrange time with her later. I have to go now for a meeting. See you next week!"

​The local messaging app, Kokonut Talk, usually notifies you of birthdays. On the day we were supposed to meet, I saw it was Taehyung's birthday. Even though we weren't close, I felt it would be rude not to acknowledge it, yet a large gift felt too much. I settled on a small cake.

​When we met, I surprised him with it.

"Hyung! Happy Birthday!"

"ohh thank you! how do you know? Kokonut Talk?"

"yes I just found it through notification"

"you don't need to give me a gift, it is fine!"

"no I should. it would be bad for me to not giving you anything"

"okay thank you. I will treat you a dinner in return. let's meet again next week!"

"shall we take a picture?"

"cool! here in the cherry blossoms on the background"

We took photos and walked among the cherry blossoms. The park was filled with families, students, and... couples. So many couples. I felt a bit awkward, but I reminded myself a friend was coming.

​"There he is," Taehyung said, pointing.

"Hello," the newcomer said in the local language.

"Hello," I replied.

"Ryul, meet Chris. Chris, this is Ryul," Taehyung introduced us. I was curious why he used an English name.

"Why 'Chris'?" I asked. I've always been the type to ask direct questions, even if they border on annoying.

"Just use Chris," he said smoothly. "It's easier for you."

​Taehyung went to the restroom, leaving me alone with Chris.

"Are you older than me?" I asked.

"I heard you're twenty-four," Chris replied. "I'm only a year older. No need for 'Hyung.' Just relax."

"Okay. What's your major?"

"I'm an undergrad, graduating this semester from the Agriculture department. You?"

"Environmental Engineering. So, you and Taehyung go to the same church?"

"Yeah, we've been at the same church for a long time. We haven't seen each other much lately because Taehyung Hyung has been working."

​I froze. "Working? Isn't he writing his graduation paper?"

Chris looked surprised. "He graduated two years ago. He was a Political Science major, but now he works at a travel agency."

​A knot formed in my stomach. Why had Taehyung lied to me? It was possible he was involved in a research project with a professor, but the inconsistency felt heavy. Before we parted, Taehyung asked to meet again next week for dinner-his treat, to make up for the birthday cake. He always asked me in person, never via text. He seemed constantly busy, rarely replying to messages, yet always pushing for the next face-to-face meeting.