During the spring, the streets of Seoul were alive with the sounds of ambition. Vendors sold steaming fish cakes, students hurried to hagwons, and the crisp air carried the scent of possibility. For Chang Mi-Young, however, possibility was a double-edged sword. She sat in her room, surrounded by textbooks and pressure so thick she could barely breathe. Her parents had her future mapped out: a top university, medical school, and, eventually, a prestigious career as a doctor. There was no room for her real dream, the one she kept locked away in the quiet corners of her mind.
Mi-Young wanted to be an idol.
She often imagined herself on stage, lost in the lights and cheers of a crowd, but every time the fantasy appeared, reality snatched it away. Her parents' voices echoed in her head, reminding her that dreams like that were fleeting. Her mother was always the more vocal. "Idols come and go, but doctors save lives," she'd say, not unkindly, but with the firmness that brooked no argument. Mi-Young never dared to argue.
Across town, in a smaller, dimly lit apartment, Zhang Yuqing was getting ready for her first day at a new school. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied her hair back, glancing nervously at her reflection in the mirror. She had left Taiwan just a few weeks ago, following her family's decision to move to Korea for better opportunities. Korea offered more resources for learning languages, something her parents were eager for. They wanted her to become a translator, someone who could bridge the gap between cultures and earn a stable income.
But Yuqing had different aspirations. She wanted to be an author, to create worlds with words, to tell stories that mattered. Back in Taiwan, she'd been bullied for it, her classmates mocking her for dreaming too big. Creative writing, in their eyes, was frivolous. After all, words didn't pay the bills. And so, Yuqing kept her stories locked away, just like Mi-Young kept her dreams hidden. She wondered if Korea would be any different, or if she'd once again be an outsider. Fluent in four languages-Mandarin, Korean, English, and Portuguese-she felt both empowered and burdened by her ability to adapt, to translate other people's worlds without fully being part of one herself.
---
On the first day of the new school year, Mi-Young walked into class, her uniform crisp and perfectly ironed, a facade of control hiding the chaos underneath. She was the kind of girl others admired from a distance. Her grades were impeccable, and her parents had chosen the best school in Seoul for her, a place where the most ambitious students gathered. But inside, she felt like she was drifting, far from the life she actually wanted.
She took her seat by the window, already anticipating a long day of lectures, tests, and expectations. It wasn't long before a new face caught her attention.
Zhang Yuqing stood nervously at the front of the class, clutching her books tightly to her chest. She introduced herself in fluent Korean, her accent barely noticeable, but the others still whispered. Foreigners, even those who spoke their language, were always slightly out of place in the tightly-knit circles of Seoul's prestigious schools.
Mi-Young watched as Yuqing was directed to sit beside her, and she couldn't help but notice the girl's tense posture, the way she avoided eye contact. There was something familiar in that uncertainty, something Mi-Young couldn't quite place.
It wasn't until late afternoon, when they were both assigned to clean the classroom after school, that they spoke for the first time.
The sun was setting, casting a golden glow across the empty classroom. Mi-Young swept the floor while Yuqing wiped down the desks, silence hanging between them like an unspoken question.
"You're always writing," Mi-Young said, surprising herself with the sudden urge to break the quiet.
Yuqing looked up, startled, then smiled shyly. "It's just something I do," she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
