The autumn sun warmed the brick paths of Seoul National University's humanities campus. Yellow ginkgo leaves scattered across the ground as students hurried between the modernist glass buildings and traditional hanok-style structures. Seojun walked past the crowded campus coffee cart, his laptop bag heavy with research materials for his comparative literature thesis on magical realism in East Asian fiction.
He kept to himself, as usual. His dark hair fell carelessly over his eyes, and his tall frame was wrapped in a well-worn navy coat. The library beckoned ahead—his sanctuary since freshman year, where he'd spent countless hours analyzing the works of Haruki Murakami and Can Xue, trying to understand how they wove reality and fantasy so seamlessly together.
The academic rankings posted on the department bulletin board caught his eye as he passed. His name still held the top spot, though he barely glanced at it anymore. The validation had lost its shine somewhere between his second and third year. Now, in his final semester, he found more satisfaction in losing himself in the layers of metaphor in "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" than in maintaining his GPA.
He was mentally composing his thesis introduction when a sharp sound cut through his thoughts—the scrape of a shoe against stone.
On the steps of the Literature Building, a student was mid-conversation with her friend, her brown hair catching the sunlight. She gestured animatedly as she spoke about the upcoming contemporary theater production she was directing. Her energy drew attention naturally, making the austere academic building feel more alive.
Then her foot missed the step.
Seojun moved without thinking. His bag slipped from his shoulder as he crossed the short distance, catching her before she could fall. The impact was gentle but solid.
She steadied herself against him, her hand gripping his coat. For a moment, they stayed like that, the surprise of the near-fall hanging in the air between them.
"Thanks," she said, finding her footing. "That could have been bad." Her voice carried a hint of embarrassment beneath its cheerfulness.
"Are you okay?" Seojun asked, stepping back and retrieving his fallen bag.
"I'm fine." She brushed her hair back, revealing a small silver ear cuff shaped like a drama mask. "I'm Seo-Yeon. I've seen you in the library sometimes, always surrounded by huge books with serious-looking titles."
Seojun shifted his bag, surprised she'd noticed him. "I'm Seojun. I'm working on my thesis."
"Oh? What's it about?" Her question seemed genuine, not just polite conversation.
"Magical realism in contemporary Asian literature." He waited for her eyes to glaze over, as most people's did when he mentioned his research.
Instead, she lit up. "Really? We're adapting Murakami's 'The Elephant Vanishes' for our winter showcase. The way he blends reality and surrealism is exactly what we're trying to capture on stage."
Seojun found himself interested despite his usual reluctance to engage. "That's... ambitious. How do you plan to represent the disappearing elephant?"
"Want to grab a coffee and I'll tell you about it? The arts building café makes these amazing honey lattes, and they're actually quiet enough to talk." She pointed to a stone building across the courtyard. "Unless you're headed somewhere?"
He thought about the library, his usual spot by the window, the stack of books waiting for him. But for once, the routine felt less appealing than the alternative.
"Sure," he said, surprising himself. "I'd like to hear about the adaptation."
They walked together toward the café, discussing the challenges of translating magical realism to stage. Seo-Yeon's enthusiasm for theater matched his own for literature, and he found himself sharing his thoughts about the symbolic elements in Murakami's work.
The café was warm and smelled of coffee and old books. Plants hung in macramé holders near the windows, and worn armchairs created cozy corners for studying. They found a quiet spot near a shelf filled with theater scripts and poetry collections.
As they settled in with their drinks, Seojun realized he'd just had the longest conversation he'd had with anyone in weeks. And somehow, it hadn't been draining at all.