The alarm went off at 6:29.
It didn't surprise me. I had been awake since 5:47, staring at the ceiling with my eyes wide open and my mind spinning like the drum of a washing machine that refuses to end its cycle. When the beeping finally came, I turned it off almost with relief. At least now I had an official excuse to stop pretending I was asleep.
If I had a camera pointing up at that moment, the photo would have been titled something like: "Girl Who Made an Expensive Mistake." Or perhaps simply: "Idiot, 6:29 a.m."
Because that's exactly what I had been.
I had spent the whole morning replaying that event. It was etched onto the back of my eyelids with the cruel precision of a photographer. Jhin's face and his eyes when he snatched the jacket from me. It wasn't just anger—disappointment, maybe? I don't know, and I don't want to keep thinking about it.
"Spoiled brats," I muttered to the ceiling, just like yesterday.
But the words sounded just as hollow as they always did. Just a cheap excuse.
I sat up in bed. The sheets tangled around my legs as if they were trying to hold me back, and for a second, I let them. Then I kicked them away and stood up before my brain could find another reason to stay.
The uniform Pariz had lent me was still the best thing I had ever touched in my life. I put it on carefully, feeling the difference in the fabric compared to my pajamas. I turned to look at my desk, specifically my chair with its new and expensive cover, and the red jacket they had given me at the office.
Class 1-D. In Hathor's records of success, no one had ever come from that class; most were from 1-A or 1-B. I had read that in a hallway filled with accolades—small golden frames with names and classes. And the jacket that now covered me wasn't the faded blue one; it was my position, my place in their world.
I walked out of my room into the hallway, clutching my backpack. I stopped at my grandfather's closet. I was greeted by its aged, nostalgic scent. Fixer. Developer. Acetic acid. The smell of magic, as he used to call it.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
The red of the safety light tinted everything immediately, opening the magical portal to my world. The photographs on the walls stared at me, frozen in time: flowers growing between concrete cracks, stray cats with their damp eyes, the shadows of abandoned buildings. My history immortalized. Six years of learning to see the world through a lens.
"Good morning, Grandpa," I whispered, as I always did.
The floorboard creaked softly. I liked to think it was him welcoming me.
I opened my backpack to take out the roll of film I had finished. My fingers searched for it in the side pocket, and then they found it before finding my roll.
The envelope.
I pulled it out slowly, as if it were about to break. White, wrinkled, with that logo engraved in silver ink that shimmered even under the red light of the darkroom. I held it between my fingers and stared at it.
I didn't open it. I would never open it. I knew that with the same certainty I knew how to make instant hot chocolate. But I didn't let go of it immediately either. That thick paper was my only piece of power. The only thing that gave me importance in this world of zeros.
I flipped it between my fingers once. Twice. I sighed.
"I'm returning it today," I told the emptiness of the darkroom, the photographs on the walls, the affectionate ghost of my grandfather living in the creaks. "I promise."
I tucked the envelope back into the side pocket, pulled out the roll of film I had been looking for, and zipped the backpack with a tug that sounded more final than I felt. Then I looked at the walls one last time.
"When I get back, I promise to bring lots of photos," I said. "Of the campus, the buildings, everything. Especially cute insects." I looked toward the roll I had left behind. "That's one down."
I closed the darkroom door carefully. The click of the lock resonated in the silence of the hallway like a period.
In the kitchen, the world was different.
The smell of freshly made rice and kimchi filled the small space with a comforting familiarity. Mom had her back turned, moving between the rice cooker and the table with that choreography she could do even with her eyes half-closed. Dad was sitting there with his cup of coffee and his old phone, but he wasn't reading the news. He was looking at me.
"Good morning, my girl," Mom greeted, turning with a smile that took up her whole face. "I made your favorite."
White rice, homemade kimchi, a fried egg, and seaweed soup, accompanied by a cup of instant hot chocolate.
"If you want, I can help you with your backpack so you can sit down and eat," she offered, taking it from my hands. "You can also take off that jacket and put on an apron so you don't get your pretty uniform dirty."
"I can't, Mom," I cut in, snatching my backpack back. "I don't want to be late again."
"But it's barely 6:50," her smile wavered. "And you didn't have dinner last night, Suri-ah..."
"I have things to do," I said, not meeting her eyes. "The school darkroom. Projects. I have to meet their expectations, you know how it is."
Dad set his cup down with a soft thud on the table, looking up at me.
"Suri," Mom said, and there was something more in her voice than the usual worry. She wiped her hands on her apron, taking mine carefully. "No matter what happens at that school... we are with you. Okay? You don't have to carry it alone."
"If something is wrong," Dad continued, "don't hesitate to tell us."
I clenched my jaw.
The gesture came on its own, as always, before I could stop it. My fingers searched for my jawline almost by reflex, pressing lightly as I tried to tilt my head to the side. I knew they recognized it. And yet, neither said anything.
"I'm fine," I lied, my jaw still clenched and my eyes fixed on my backpack strap. "Everything is fine. Really." I turned to see a slice of toast on the table, reaching out to grab it. "I'll take this, for good luck."
Mom hugged me, covering me in her trembling arms. "We'll support you," she whispered against my hair. "In whatever decision you make. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Mom," I nodded, feeling my chest tighten. "Your support is what I love most," I said, pulling away before the tears could find their way out. "But seriously, Mom... I really have to go."
She nodded, letting me out. "Bye," I said, waving as I stepped through the doorway and closed the door, seeing them one last time.
The door clicked shut behind me, sealing my decision.
"Don't let me go," I whispered, walking away from the door.
Thank you, Mom. If you had stopped me for one more second, I would be crying these words out loud.
I walked fast, my backpack adjusted tight on my shoulder and the envelope weighing in the side pocket like a small stone.
An old woman was watering plants on her balcony. A stray dog stretched under a lamppost. Half-finished graffiti on a wall said: "Dreams cannot be bought."
Every image was a potential photograph. Every moment, a frame waiting to be captured. I activated my imaginary lens and kept walking.
The bus arrived exactly at 7:02.
I climbed the metal steps with strides that sounded heavier than they should. I looked for an empty seat near the window—my favorite spot to observe how the world changed from one frame to another—and slumped into it with more force than necessary.
The knot in my throat was still there. I could still feel Mom's hug, the weight of her trembling arms, the smell of cheap detergent and aloe cream. And especially her words: "We'll support you in whatever decision you make."
I squeezed my backpack strap.
"Don't think about it," I whispered. "You already made the decision. You already left. You already lied. Now just keep going."
I pressed my forehead against the cold bus window and closed my eyes for a second.
"SURI-UNNIE!"
The high-pitched voice sliced through the bus's murmur like a butter knife. I snapped my eyes open. Every passenger turned to look at me, as if I had just screamed that I had a bomb in my backpack.
Ha-Jun, Tae-Jun's little sister, was standing in the middle of the aisle, her unicorn backpack bouncing as she pointed at me with the pure enthusiasm of someone who had never known social shame. Her eyes sparkled as if she had just seen the Burj Khalifa.
Behind her, Tae-Jun was trying to get her to sit down, his face oscillating between older-brother embarrassment and the exhaustion of someone who clearly hadn't slept enough to deal with this.
"Ha-Jun-ah, sit down," he muttered, gently pulling her arm.
"But it's Suri-unnie!" she protested, resisting with all the strength of her seven years. "The incredible photographer!"
For a second—just a microscopic second—something in my chest loosened.
Tae-Jun finally managed to get her seated. Then he looked at me with an expression that was half-apology, half-amusement.
"Good morning, Suri," he said, taking out one of the earbuds connected to his Discman. "Forgive Ha-Jun. She's excited because... well, you know, she saw you."
"Good morning, Tae-Jun," I replied, trying to sound casual even though everyone on the bus was still staring at us like we were a live variety show.
Ha-Jun peeked over the back of the seat like a puppy that had just learned to stand on its hind legs. Her big, bright eyes locked onto me with an intensity only small children can achieve without being creepy.
"Suri-unnie, have you taken photos of Hathor yet?" she asked, without pauses or periods between her words. "I bet you found the most beautiful part of the buildings, you always do, like when you photographed the blue house on the corner and captured that detail on the balcony that no one else notices."
I felt a strange warmth in my chest. It wasn't shame. Or at least, not just shame. It was something more like... surprise. Surprise that someone so small paid attention to my photos. Surprise that she saw what I was trying to capture and not just what was there.
"Thank you, Ha-Jun-ah," I said, and my voice came out softer than I expected. Almost as if the knot in my throat had loosened a bit more without me noticing. "I haven't photographed much of Hathor yet, but when I do, I'll show you the photos. I promise."
"Yes!" Ha-Jun gave a little hop in her seat, making her unicorn backpack shake. "When I grow up, I'm going to design houses AS pretty as the ones you photograph. And you're going to take pictures of them and..."
"Ha-Jun," Tae-Jun interrupted, his voice firmer now but not cruel. "Let Suri rest." He turned to me with a grin from ear to ear. "Excuse her, you know she loves architecture."
"I could never forget," I said, moving a strand of hair. "When she was three, she made the biggest and most beautiful castles I had ever seen."
"And I still have the photos!" she shouted excitedly, pulling a small bag from her backpack. "Look, I'm saving up to buy more blocks to make my buildings even bigger."
"Ha-Jun, put that away," Tae-Jun interrupted, another failed attempt to sit her down.
I pulled a 500-won coin from my pocket and dropped it into her bag. "Here, so you can buy more cubes."
The smile she gave was so big I could swear it glowed. "Now I see why Oppa says you're a very talented and pretty girl!"
A laugh escaped from my stomach, so light it just kept coming.
"No, Suri, it's not what you think," he tried to interrupt. But Ha-Jun was stronger.
"He also says you're very smart but that he is smarter! Is it true, Unnie? Is Oppa smarter than you?"
Tae-Jun turned the color of a ripe tomato. His eyes went wide, and for a second, it looked like he was going to disappear into his seat or maybe throw himself out of the moving bus window.
"Ha-Jun," he hissed, in a voice that tried to be authoritative but came out three octaves too high. "That's not... I never said..."
"Yes, you did!" Ha-Jun insisted, completely oblivious to the nuclear catastrophe she had caused. "Last night you told Mom that Suri is smart but that you were smarter..."
"We've reached your stop!" Tae-Jun exclaimed, standing up abruptly despite the fact that there were clearly two more blocks to go before any reasonable stop. "Come on, Ha-Jun. Fast. Now. Immediately."
"But Oppa, not yet..."
"Now," he insisted, taking her hand with a mix of urgency and poorly disguised panic that would have been comical if I were an outsider. "We have to... I have to... there's a thing that... Bye, Suri!"
They got off at the next stop. Tae-Jun was practically dragging Ha-Jun, who waved at me enthusiastically while her brother pulled her toward the exit as if they were escaping a burning building.
Just before the doors closed, Tae-Jun turned back one last time. Our eyes met for a second.
"The next time you come to our house," he shouted, with a mix of defiance and embarrassment that only a mortified teenager can achieve while putting his earbud back in, "I'll show you who deserved to go to Hathor more. I'm warning you!" he finished, with a fist in the air.
A smile formed on my lips before I could stop it.
"I hope so, you ripe tomato!" I shouted back, though he didn't turn around again.
And then the doors closed and the bus pulled away, leaving me alone with a silly smile on my face that had no right to be there. Some passengers looked at me with curiosity. Others smiled, clearly entertained by the show we had accidentally put on.
But I could only feel something strange happening in my chest.
The knot was still there. The weight of the envelope in my backpack was still there. The lie I told Mom was still there, sitting in my stomach like a stone.
But something else was also there now. Something I hadn't felt since I first entered Hathor. Something I thought I had lost somewhere between the spilled coffee and the cruel laughter of Mary and her clones.
I brought my fingers to the corner of my mouth and touched my own smile, as if it were a photograph I needed to confirm was real.
When was the last time I smiled like this? I thought. Yesterday?
I couldn't remember. And that, in some strange way, scared me more than everything else.
Tae-Jun was weird. Competitive but not cruel. Smart but clumsy in unexpected ways, like someone who knows all the answers to the exam but doesn't know how to tie their shoes without tripping. And his sister... Ha-Jun was like a sunbeam that didn't know it burned. That shone without asking for permission.
I remembered his words from the last time we saw each other, when I told him I'd been accepted into Hathor:
"Staying there... Hathor might be a great school, but it must be a place where your camera and my Discman aren't welcome," he had said. That day we were listening to I Will Always Love You. A new CD his father had sent him.
"Maybe you're right," I had told him. "Or maybe not. I won't know until I see it and take a few photos."
But for now, at this exact moment while the bus moved forward and my reflection in the window gave me back that look with that tiny smile still on my lips...
"You're right," I said, looking down at my skirt. "Half-right."
I adjusted my backpack strap. The envelope was still there, heavy and present. But now, at least for a moment, it wasn't the only thing I was carrying.