Episode 1. The Departure

​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.

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