The Audacity to Belong

...•••••...

The city of Seoul didn’t welcome her.

It loomed — like something watching.

Too loud.

Even in the early morning, the city hummed like it had something to prove — every honk, every heel-click on pavement, every screen flashing something newer, faster, better. Aera stood still outside the wide iron gates of the SIHCA, her chest rising too slow for the pace of the world around her.

She didn't belong here.

Not according to him.

Her father walked half a step ahead, arms folded tight. His face — unreadable to most — had always been a mirror to her failures. He hadn't smiled since the train. Maybe even before that.

“You sure this is the place?” he asked, as if she could mistake the banner with [Seoul Institute of Hotel & Culinary Arts (SIHCA)] written boldly in gold.

She nodded, her voice swallowed by nerves. “Yes.”

“You remember what you’re here for, right?” he asked flatly, as they entered the admissions building.

Aera didn’t flinch.

She never did anymore.

She had come from Miryang, a quiet countryside that smelled of rice fields and regret. Where dreams were something you whispered, not pursued. She spent the last two years of her life shut in a room she called her own, though even that felt borrowed. Books and silence were her only friends, and the mirror never lied to her — it told her how little she mattered in a home that never saw her.

He scoffed, brushing past a group of neatly dressed parents and students. “Just don’t embarrass yourself in there.”

No, she thought. That’s your job.

...🥀...

Inside, the reception was bustling. Laughter, confusion, announcements over a mic. Students clutched folders like shields, parents hovered nervously. Aera looked down at her own hands — steady. Her nails were short, bitten from anxiety, but her grip was firm.

She checked her schedule.

...Counseling Room 3B. 11:20 AM....

The hallway smelled of cold air and expensive polish. She waited outside the door with her father pacing behind her like a shadow, as if preparing to apologize for her existence at any moment.

Her number was called for the counseling session, and she rose from the hard bench, heart thudding against her ribs.

“Don’t say anything unnecessary,” her father muttered. “Keep it simple.”

She didn’t respond. What was the point? The real conversation was always happening in her head.

There were three people across the table — a counselor, an admissions officer, and a professor with a calm face and too many pens in his pocket.

“Lee Aera,” one of them said with a kind smile. “Please have a seat. You’re applying for the culinary hospitality track?”

She nodded, her voice crisp. “Yes.”

Her father interrupted once.

“She has a tendency to give up halfway,” he said, his voice too casual, too loud. “We just want to make sure she won’t waste time here either.”

Aera’s fingers gripped the hem of her skirt beneath the table.

The counselor gave a tight smile. “We’ll be monitoring all first-year students closely. We believe growth comes with support.”

Support.

That word didn’t exist in her household. There was pressure. There was expectation. But never support.

They asked questions. Routine things. But every word felt like a tightrope she wasn’t allowed to slip on. Her answers came clean. Measured. Polite. Not too eager, not too timid. She’d spent months in silence rehearsing for a moment like this, when she’d be allowed to speak.

But still—

They wanted to know about the gap.

The unspoken years between high school and now.

“There’s a two-year pause in your academic record,” the professor said, brows slightly arched. “Can you walk us through that?”

Aera nodded once.

“I wasn’t in the right state to continue,” she said, carefully. “But I learned to manage that. I studied on my own, worked part-time. I didn’t want to rush into anything I couldn’t carry well.”

The counselor nodded slowly. The pen moved across paper. Someone asked if she could handle the pressure of city life, the competitiveness of the course. She said yes. Her back stayed straight.

Behind her, her father exhaled — like even her words were embarrassing.

“She’s not used to socializing,” he said to no one in particular. “She’s been in her room for the last two years.”

There was a pause.

Aera didn’t turn around.

“I learned a lot in that room,” she said calmly, her tone flat. “How to survive being forgotten.”

The silence cracked into stillness. The professor looked at her again, closer this time. As if he hadn’t really seen her before.

The rest of the session passed like a glass wall — she moved through it but never touched anything. And when they said “You’ll hear back by next week,” she only nodded.

Outside the room, her father leaned against the hallway wall, frowning.

“Don’t expect too much,” he said. “Just because they smiled doesn’t mean you’re special.”

She looked at him, for the first time since morning.

“I don’t expect anything anymore,” she said. Then she said in her mind-That’s how I survive.

...🥀...

They had just stepped out of the counseling room when a faculty member — tall, thin-rimmed glasses balanced delicately on his nose — approached with a clipboard in hand.

“Lee Aera-ssi?” he asked politely.

Aera turned, instinctively bowing.

“Yes,” she replied.

“We’ve reviewed your initial documents. You’ve been pre-accepted for the culinary hospitality program,” he said, scanning her name once again. “We’ll need the first semester’s tuition payment by today to confirm your slot.”

Her father stepped forward immediately, stiff with suspicion. “Today?”

The man gave a professional smile. “Yes, it’s part of our standard enrollment procedure. You can visit the Accounts Office on the second floor for the fee breakdown.”

Her father gave a short nod, gestured vaguely toward the staircase. “Go take care of it. I’ll wait.”

Aera hesitated, then climbed the steps alone.

The second floor was quieter, all glass windows and a view of the courtyard below — students moved like they knew exactly who they were. Her heart quickened. She found the sign that read “Accounts | International Affairs” and walked in, shoulders pulled tight.

Inside, a receptionist glanced up.

“Yes?”

Aera stepped closer to the counter. “I… came to inquire about the first semester fee payment. I was told—”

“English, please,” the woman cut in gently.

Aera blinked.

“I… I want to ask… about the p-payment…” she tried again, but her tongue betrayed her — slipping, stalling, as if the words were too big in her mouth. The panic crawled fast, clogging her chest.

Her throat clenched tight, dry as sand. Her palms grew damp, fingertips twitching against the edge of the counter. Heat surged up her neck, blooming beneath her ears, while her chest pulled in air that didn’t feel like enough.

She could hear everything — the soft hum of the printer behind the desk, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights above, the distant laughter of students outside the glass hallway. Every sound was too sharp, too loud. Her body felt like it was shrinking, folding into itself.

The receptionist looked politely confused. “The payment portal? Or are you paying in cash?”

“Portal,” Aera whispered. Her accent felt heavier than it ever had in Miryang. Her voice — too soft, too unsure.

The receptionist clicked something. “Your name?”

Aera opened her mouth but the answer got stuck somewhere between her ribs. She could hear herself struggling, could hear the gap between her mind — sharp, prepared — and her mouth, failing to keep up. Her Korean brain tripped over English expectations.

The silence swelled. She felt every second of it digging into her skin like pins.

Behind her, a soft voice suddenly spoke up. “Sorry, can I help?”

A girl — maybe a year or two older — leaned beside her, smiling at the receptionist before turning to Aera. “Are you here to pay the admission fee? I can translate if needed.”

Aera nodded mutely. Shame burned up her neck.

The girl explained things quickly in fluent English, then turned back to Aera with warmth in her voice. “They just need your email address for verification and whether you're paying online or through wire transfer. Want me to stay?”

Aera bowed slightly, her throat tight. “Thank you.”

The girl smiled. “No worries. First day is hell for everyone.”

Aera watched her walk away, the echo of kindness lingering in the air — too kind, too casual — the sort that reminded her how far behind she felt. The receptionist printed out a slip and gave it to her. Aera held it like a report card.

Downstairs, her father was waiting with crossed arms and a tightening jaw.

“What happened?” he asked, though his tone already answered for him.

“Nothing,” she said, handing him the paper.

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

She stared straight ahead.

“You couldn’t even talk properly. You studied English, didn’t you?” His voice was sharp. Not loud. Never loud. But sharp like cracked porcelain. “You embarrassed yourself.”

You embarrassed me, he meant.

She nodded once — not in agreement, but surrender.

He didn’t speak on the train ride back. Just stared out the window like the city was too ugly to look at. She didn’t try to fill the silence. She had lived inside that silence for years. She had made a home of it.

But as the train curved away from Seoul and into the green horizon, Aera gripped her bag a little tighter. Her hand trembled — but not from weakness.

No.

From restraint.

Because she wanted to scream that she had tried. That she was still trying. That her mouth couldn’t speak fast when her brain was still fighting ghosts. But she said nothing.

Instead, she whispered to herself.

“Next time, I won’t choke.”

And meant it.

...•••••...

End of the chapter~

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