The Arts Building café hummed with late afternoon activity. Students hunched over laptops at wooden tables, and the espresso machine hissed periodically behind the counter decorated with local art. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sunset painted the sky in muted oranges, casting a warm glow over the scattered theatrical props displayed on vintage shelves—remnants from past student productions.
Seojun sat in a worn leather armchair, his thesis materials spread on the small table beside him, next to a steaming cup of honey-jasmine tea that Seo-Yeon had recommended. "It's our lighting designer's special blend," she'd explained. "She sources it from a tiny shop in Insadong."
Across from him, Seo-Yeon curled up in her chair, her theater script marked with colorful sticky notes resting on her lap. She'd tied her hair back now, revealing multiple small earrings that caught the light when she moved. Her oversized sweater had "SNU Drama Society" embroidered on the sleeve.
"You're doing that thing again," she observed, marking something in her script with a purple pen.
Seojun looked up from his tea. "What thing?"
"Thinking too hard about how to be in a conversation instead of just being in one." She set her script aside. "You remind me of how actors get during first rehearsals—all self-conscious and overthinking every movement."
The comparison made him pause. A student barista called out an order number, and someone's laptop chimed with a notification. "I suppose it's similar," he admitted. "Words feel... heavy sometimes."
"Like in Murakami's works?" Seo-Yeon leaned forward, her expression brightening with academic interest. "How the weight of what's not said matters more than what is?"
Seojun felt his shoulders relax slightly. This was familiar territory. "Yes, exactly. In 'Kafka on the Shore,' the conversations between Kafka and Miss Saeki are full of..."
"Negative space," they said simultaneously.
Seo-Yeon laughed, the sound drawing a few glances from nearby tables. "Sorry," she said, lowering her voice. "It's just—that's exactly what we're struggling with in the adaptation. How do you show absence on stage?"
"How are you handling it?" Seojun found himself genuinely curious, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his teacup.
"Well," she shifted, pulling her feet under her, "we're experimenting with lighting and sound. Creating moments where the audience feels the emptiness rather than sees it." She gestured to a student passing their table. "Minjo! Show Seojun the shadow concept."
The student—apparently the lighting designer—stopped by their table. She had paint on her hands and a measuring tape around her neck. "For the elephant scene?" She pulled out her phone, showing them a video of light experiments: shadows growing and shrinking impossibly on a white wall.
"It's about perception," Minjo explained, tucking a strand of blue-tinted hair behind her ear. "Like in magical realism—what's real depends on who's watching."
Seojun nodded, thinking of similar themes in his thesis. "That connects to what Can Xue writes about reality being subjective—"
"Oh my god, wait," Seo-Yeon interrupted, sitting up straight. "Can Xue! Would you be willing to look at our script? Your perspective on magical realism could really help with the adaptation."
The request caught him off guard. His instinct was to refuse—new people, unfamiliar situation, too many social expectations. But there was something about the genuine enthusiasm in her eyes, the way she leaned forward slightly, waiting for his answer.
"I... could do that," he said slowly. "If it would help."
"It would!" Seo-Yeon beamed. "We rehearse on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the Black Box Theater. Come whenever you can?" She pulled a crumpled rehearsal schedule from her script and smoothed it out on the table.
Minjo excused herself to her next class, leaving them alone again. The café had grown quieter, the sunset deepening outside. Seojun gathered his books, aware of the time.
"Thank you for the tea," he said, standing. "And the conversation."
Seo-Yeon stood too, gathering her things. "Thank you for not running away when I ambushed you with theater talk." Her smile was softer now, more genuine than teasing. "You know, most people zone out when I get started on adaptation theory."
"Most people zone out when I talk about literary analysis too," he admitted.
"Their loss," she said simply, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "See you at rehearsal?"
Seojun nodded, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "I'll be there."
As they walked out into the cooling evening air, their paths diverging at the building's entrance, Seojun realized something had shifted. The weight of social interaction felt lighter somehow, balanced by the promise of discussions about art and reality, shadows and stories.
Maybe, he thought, watching Seo-Yeon wave as she joined a group of theater students heading toward the dormitories, this was how friendship began—not with grand gestures or forced conversations, but with shared understanding and the gentle recognition of kindred interests.