"Seongsan University? You must be proud!"
Her mother smiled and looked down at her. Sun-young sat without saying a word, her gaze lowered.
The sun came down and her mother's friend left. Her smiling expression faded with the light.
"I hope you were listening."
"I was," Sun-young replied. She was tall for her age and everyone around her said she was quite mature too. "I don't get it though. Why is school such a big deal? Can't I—"
"You will," her mother interjected. "You will, one day. You'll understand."
"Okay…"
Her mother softened and went down to her level. "Look at me." She didn't. She couldn't. "Look at me, I said."
There wasn't a special reason why she couldn't look people in the eye. She just…couldn't. Ever since she was a child, she had never been able to properly engage with her teachers or her parents.
Her mother thought that if she spent time with friends, she would grow out of it. So she forcibly made friends with the other mothers and made their children hang out with her. Sun-young never grew out of it.
Her father would come home every night wanting food. It was a typical dinner. Quiet and lulled with the background sound of the television. Once he ate, he sat to watch whatever was on. Sun-young regularly joined him.
Then middle school came and she cut her time with her father to study. After all, her mother wouldn't accept anything less than the highest grade. Her father would sometimes come over to see how she was doing and always smiled. Sun-young wasn't sure if she ever saw him not wearing a smile.
"You're doing great, Sun-young," he would say, patting her on the shoulder. "Keep working hard, and you'll achieve great things."
These words were a lifeline to her.
Her mother's expectations were relentless. Every morning, every afternoon, every night, there was a remark on homework and tutoring. Her voice became a never-ending mantra in her mind. "You must get into the top university," her mother would insist, her face etched in thin fear, disappointment, and agitation. "Your future depends on it."
And so, Sun-young soldiered on, driven by the fear of disappointing her mother and the looming spectre of a future that felt increasingly distant.
Nights were the darkest times for Sun-young. Alone in her room, she would stare at her textbooks, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, yet her mind plagued by anxiety.
Solace came during summer, when she would visit her grandparents for two weeks. She would regularly partake in Keomdo—the way of the sword. The midsummer sun beat down on the vibrant city of Seoul yet she was able to wipe her sweat away and enter their home with a toothy smile.
Every morning, the scent of simmering bulgogi wafted from the kitchen. Every morning, outside in the small backyard, the practice area was prepared with soft mats and the signature red and blue flags. Every morning, under the relentless sun, she would practice and laugh and smile. Her grandparents were good, much better than her, and she relished the challenge. The excitement.
Her grandmother would wait till the orange hue would come down on the city and then eagerly go inside to ready them a cold serving of subak hwachae in a hollowed watermelon. The delight on Sun-young's face as her grandmother carried the watermelons was unparalleled. She and her grandfather would regularly fight on who would get the larger portion. He was stronger and pettier than she was, so her grandfather tended to get it. But he would make up for it by taking her out and finishing the night off with coffee-flavoured ice cream.
Sun-young went there every summer till high school, till her grandparents passed away one after the other.
After that, her life became a dark, soulless practice of school and studying.
Then, one day, it happened. She was accepted.
Finally, her mother was happy. Finally, her mother could speak about her with pride. Finally, she could tell her family and friends that she attended Yonsei, just like that woman from long ago did.
But what was left of her?
The years of studying and excellence took a great toll. Her spirit, her eyes, her very self grew increasingly dull. She felt isolated from her peers, her social life reduced to fleeting moments between study sessions. A nervous glance, a nod perhaps, or a brief chat with a peer or a teacher.
Names? She couldn't remember them. She struggled to name the faces that approached her on top of already not being able to look them in the eye.
She had little time for hobbies, friendships, or self-discovery. Her identity had become synonymous with her academic performance, and her sense of self-worth was inextricably linked to her grades.
Because, as she realized, it would never be enough. She had become her mother. She had become that which she hated most.
***
Seongsan was amongst the top three universities of Korea. The cream of the crop. The most sublime elite.
But for a woman that came from an ordinary family, that meant she had to work twice as hard. She had to put twice the effort to maintain her grades. Course registration and dorm applications were a nightmare. Talking to teachers and fellow students was a constant fright.
Her ultimate goal? To become a lawyer. A high-paying occupation that would bring her mother pride and her father the ease he needed. The lines on his smile had been getting longer as of late. She took shortcuts. She went faster. She worked harder. She—
"Hey! Want to join us for lunch?"
Simply being away from her room for a prolonged period of time sent chills down her spine. She couldn't. She just couldn't.
"I have to study."
"O-oh, okay. Next time then."
'Next time…'
In her heart, she knew there was no next time.
She hated herself. She hated herself so, so much. She hated herself for not being able to look people in the eye. She hated herself for not giving the answer that she wanted to give.
She hated thinking she was annoying everyone just by speaking. Always overthinking. Unable to say yes. Forgiving people too often no matter what they had done. Getting worried too easily. Always being left out. Feeling stuck. Always saying sorry. Afraid of being abandoned. Hated. Replaced. Rejected. Constantly believing people were talking behind her back even if they weren't. Terrified of asking for help.
Being forgotten.
She didn't understand her life and she desperately wanted to know. What did God have in store for a miserable wretch like Yoon Sun-young?
She didn't want to face her fears so she marched forward. She kept working.
One day, she got the letter. She was accepted into the law school of her desire.
She was there. She was almost there. Just three more years. Three more years of studying—of blood, sweat, and tears. Of rinsing and repeating the same day over and over again. Then, she would get what she wanted. Then, she would become a lawyer and all her fears would disappear.
So why? Why was she crying? She should have been crying rivers of joy! She should have been ecstatic! She should have been telling her mother!
Why? Why, why, why?
Why was she standing on a chair, her neck suddenly feeling constricted, and her existence fading?