After hours of flying, endless announcements, and the weight of a thousand goodbyes, I finally found myself on the other side of the world—Seoul, South Korea. The moment I stepped outside the airport doors, the air hit me differently. Cold, sharp, alive. It carried with it a scent of freedom, of possibility. I inhaled deeply. This is what I was waiting for.
I hailed a cab and sank into the backseat, staring out at the city as it unfolded before me. Neon lights buzzed even in the early hours, glass towers scraped the sky, and narrow streets overflowed with people rushing somewhere important. My heart thumped with equal parts fear and excitement.
When the cab finally pulled up in front of my building, I froze for a second. It wasn't the tallest or flashiest, but it felt… right. Modern, clean, with wide balconies and terraces attached to each apartment. Only two apartments per floor—private, peaceful. I tilted my head back, eyes landing on the fifth floor. Apartment 501. My apartment. My own little world.
Dragging my suitcase inside, I stepped into the space I would now call home. Fully furnished, with pale walls and large windows that opened to a terrace, it felt both foreign and familiar. I ran my hand over the couch, the dining table, the shelves—every corner whispered, This is yours now.
I called Amna and Fatima immediately, turning the camera to show them my terrace. "Look! This is where I'll drink coffee every morning!" I said, trying to sound cheerful, though a lump sat in my throat. Amna giggled and begged, "Khalaaa, show me your bed!" Fatima teased, "Hannah, don't get too comfortable—I'm coming soon to crash your apartment!"
That night, jet lag tugged at my eyes, and I fell asleep with the sound of their voices echoing in my head.
The next morning, I woke early. My body was tired, but my heart buzzed with energy. I went for a walk, taking in my neighborhood. Children in bright uniforms clutched their mothers' hands as they waited for school buses. Office workers in neat suits walked briskly, clutching coffee cups. But what struck me most was their expressions. No one looked happy. Everyone was rushing, faces set in stone. Strange, I thought. How can life feel so alive here, yet so distant at the same time?
I did my grocery shopping that morning—picking up bread, milk, eggs, and some snacks I couldn't even pronounce. Back in my apartment, I made a simple breakfast, then spent the day unpacking. Clothes folded neatly in the closet, shoes lined in rows, books stacked on shelves. Piece by piece, I built my own space.
By the end of the day, my little apartment didn't feel like a stranger's place anymore. It felt like mine.
The following morning was different. My first official day at Aurora Communications.
I stood in front of the mirror, straightening my blazer for the third time. "You've got this," I whispered to myself, though my hands shook as I fixed my hair. Grabbing my bag, I headed out.
The company's glass building gleamed under the Seoul sun, tall and intimidating. As I stepped inside, I felt dozens of eyes flicker toward me—the foreigner, the newcomer. My heels clicked against the polished floor, each sound echoing my nervous heartbeat.
At the reception desk, I introduced myself. "I'm Hannah. Today's my first day."
The receptionist gave a polite smile and directed me to the marketing floor. As I entered, I was greeted with a small round of applause—customary, I guessed, for welcoming a new team member. My manager briefly introduced me to the team, most of whom just nodded politely before returning to their screens.
And then I noticed him.
A man in his mid-20s, neatly dressed, with kind eyes that stood out in the sea of indifferent faces. He was introduced as Nam Ji Hwan, one of the senior associates in marketing. Unlike the others, he didn't just nod—he stepped forward, extending his hand.
"Welcome, Hannah. It must be overwhelming, being in a new country and a new office. Don't worry—I'll help you settle in."
Something in his tone was warm, genuine. For the first time that day, I felt like I wasn't completely invisible.
He showed me around the office, pointing out the pantry, the meeting rooms, and even where the best coffee machine was. "The one on the left tastes like dishwater," he joked, and I laughed—a real laugh, breaking the tension I'd carried since morning.
Throughout the day, he checked in on me, answering questions, offering small reassurances. When I struggled with the new software they used for campaign tracking, he leaned over and explained patiently.
"You'll get the hang of it. Don't stress," he said, smiling.
By the time I left the office that evening, the city lights glimmering outside, I felt lighter. Tired, but lighter.
The first week passed in a blur of introductions, meetings, and endless emails. I was officially a Marketing Manager now—but that title came with more responsibility than I had imagined.
Every day, I worked closely with my team—brainstorming campaign ideas, analyzing data, and pitching strategies. The cultural differences were clear; my ideas were sometimes met with hesitation. But Ji Hwan always spoke up.
"I think Hannah's approach could work," he'd say firmly during meetings. "We should test it."
It wasn't just professional support. Small gestures stood out. He brought me tea when I skipped lunch, translated when I struggled with Korean, and even walked me to the subway once when it was late.
But still, I kept a professional wall. He's just a colleague, I reminded myself. I'm here for my career, not distractions.
Yet every night, when I came back to my empty apartment and stood on the terrace staring at the Seoul skyline, I couldn't deny it—his kindness had made the foreign city feel just a little less lonely.
The terrace became my favorite place. I would stand there for hours, the cool night air brushing against my face, the city humming below me. Every time my eyes wandered, they landed on the terrace next to mine—apartment 502. It was always dark, always empty. No plants, no chairs, no sign of life. I often wondered, Does anyone even live there? Or is it just… waiting? The silence of that terrace felt like a mystery hanging in the air.
And every night, without fail, I called Fatima. No matter how late it was for me or how tired she sounded back home, she picked up. We laughed about silly things, shared bits of our days, and sometimes just stayed quiet, listening to each other breathe. She was my anchor, the thread connecting me back to everything I had left behind.
Lying in bed afterward, I often thought to myself—Seoul is big, dazzling, full of strangers. But as long as I have Fatima's voice in my ear and Amna's laughter in my memory, I am not completely alone.