The thing about working at a convenience store is that it's either mind-numbingly boring or complete chaos. There's no middle ground.
Tonight started as the former.
I spent the first hour of my shift unloading the drink delivery—cases of banana milk, sports drinks, coffee in every possible variation. The cooler was organized by category, which sounds simple until you realize that Koreans have approximately seven hundred types of beverage and they all need their specific spot.
"Ji-Mang, can you check the register?" Manager Kim called from the storage room. "I think it's jamming again."
Of course it was. The register jammed at least once per shift, always at the worst possible time. I walked over and tested it—sure enough, the cash drawer was sticking.
"I'll fix it," I called back, grabbing the screwdriver we kept under the counter specifically for this purpose. Three months working here had turned me into an amateur repair technician out of necessity.
Five minutes and some percussive maintenance later, the register was functional again. Probably. Until it wasn't.
The early evening crowd was sparse—a few students grabbing ramen for dinner, an ajumma buying soju and dried squid, a delivery driver getting an energy drink. I rang them up with the efficiency of someone who'd done this hundreds of times, made small talk when required, and restocked shelves in between.
By 7 PM, Manager Kim left me alone to handle things, which was normal. The evening shift was usually manageable, and I'd proven I could handle problems without calling him back to the store.
I was restocking the triangle kimbap section—noting with grim amusement that I'd personally consumed about 40% of our sales in this category—when the door chimed.
"Welcome," I said automatically, not looking up.
"Ji-Mang-ah!"
I recognized that voice. I turned to find two of my classmates from law school—Hye-Jin and Sung-Min—walking in with the kind of energy that suggested they'd already been drinking.
"Oh, hey," I said, straightening up. "What are you guys doing here?"
"We were at a pojangmacha down the street," Hye-Jin said, her cheeks flushed. "Sung-Min wanted more beer."
"And snacks," Sung-Min added, heading straight for the chips aisle. "Can't drink without snacks. That's just irresponsible."
I laughed despite my exhaustion. Hye-Jin and Sung-Min were both scholarship students like me—not close friends, but we had that unspoken solidarity that came from being in the same boat. We studied together sometimes, complained about Seung-Ho together often.
"Rough day?" Hye-Jin asked, leaning against the counter while Sung-Min debated between three different types of chips.
"Every day is a rough day," I said. "But yeah, especially today. Professor Kwon called on me."
"Oh god. Did you survive?"
"Barely. She said my answer was 'adequate.'"
Hye-Jin's eyes widened. "That's basically a love confession from Professor Kwon."
"Right? I'm still processing it."
Sung-Min approached with an armful of snacks and four cans of beer. "Did you hear about the Jiseung internship?"
"What about it?"
"Apparently they're only taking one intern this semester instead of two. Budget cuts or something." He dumped his haul on the counter. "So now everyone's even more stressed about applications."
My stomach dropped. One spot. Which meant the competition just got exponentially worse.
"That's... great," I said flatly, scanning his items. "Just what I needed to hear."
"Sorry," Sung-Min said, wincing. "I thought you'd want to know."
"No, you're right. Better to know now." I bagged their items. "8,400 won."
Hye-Jin paid, then looked at me with something like sympathy. "You'll get it, Ji-Mang. You're top of the class."
"Top 1%, not top," I corrected automatically. "And we all know grades aren't everything."
"Yeah, but you're also the most determined person I know. That counts for something."
I appreciated her trying, but determination didn't pay for LEET prep or overcome the fact that other applicants had family connections I'd never have.
"Thanks," I said anyway. "Good luck with your drinking. Stay safe."
"We will! See you tomorrow!"
They left in a cloud of tipsy energy, and I was alone again with the fluorescent lights and the hum of refrigerators.
One internship spot.
I pulled out my phone and opened the note where I'd been tracking my applications. Twelve firms total. I'd heard back from three—all rejections. Nine still pending, including Jiseung.
The odds weren't great.
But I'd faced worse odds before. I just had to keep pushing.
The next two hours passed in a blur of customers and restocking. A group of high schoolers buying ramen and staying way too long at the eating area. A drunk salaryman who tried to pay with a subway card and got confused when it didn't work. An elderly woman who asked me to help her figure out which rice balls were halal for her grandson.
By 9:30 PM, my feet were killing me and I'd mentally checked out. Just thirty more minutes. I could do thirty more minutes.
The door chimed again.
"Welcome," I said, restocking the drinks cooler for the third time tonight.
I heard footsteps approach but didn't look up until someone cleared their throat politely.
I turned—and froze.
Choi Bok-Jin was standing in front of the counter, holding a bottle of sports drink and a protein bar, looking exactly like he had this morning at running club. Glasses, neat hair, that same quiet presence.
He clearly recognized me too, because his eyes widened slightly behind his frames.
"Oh," he said. "Han Ji-Mang-ssi. From running club."
"Yeah." My brain was short-circuiting slightly. "Hi. Uh, did you find everything okay?"
Smooth, Ji-Mang. Very professional.
"Yes, thank you." He set his items on the counter, and I scanned them automatically, grateful for the familiar routine of register operation.
"4,300 won," I said.
He paid with exact change, which somehow made him more endearing. Who carried exact change anymore?
"You work here?" he asked, and there was something in his tone—not judgment, just curiosity.
"Yeah. Evening shifts, usually. Helps pay for school."
"That's... admirable. Working while studying must be difficult."
I shrugged, bagging his items. "It's necessary. Not really admirable, just practical."
He nodded slowly, like he was processing that. "Still. It shows dedication."
There was an awkward pause where neither of us seemed to know what to say next. I was hyper-aware of how I looked—hair tied back messily, wearing this ugly work vest, probably smelling like convenience store (a mix of ramen and floor cleaner), exhausted.
Not exactly the image I wanted to project to the cute guy from running club.
"So, uh, did you like the run this morning?" I asked, because apparently my brain had decided small talk was a good idea.
"I did. It was good to have structure again. After military service, civilian life can feel... chaotic."
"I can imagine. Well, we run three times a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings. Same time, same place."
"I'll be there," he said, and there was something almost like a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe I'll pace you again."
Wait. He'd noticed?
"You were pacing me?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Your form is good. Steady rhythm. It seemed like a reasonable pace to match."
"Oh." My face felt warm. "Thanks, I guess."
Another pause. He picked up his bag, clearly preparing to leave.
"I should go. Thank you for—" He gestured vaguely at the counter.
"Yeah, no problem. That's literally my job."
He smiled then, a real one, and it completely transformed his face. Made him go from quietly handsome to actually devastating.
And then he left, the door chiming behind him.
I stood there for a solid ten seconds, just processing.
Choi Bok-Jin. From running club. Had just been in my convenience store. And noticed me during the run. And was coming back Friday.
"Stop it," I told myself firmly. "You don't have time for this."
But I was smiling when I went back to restocking.
Manager Kim came back at 9:50 to close up, which meant I could clock out and head home. My shift had officially ended at 10, but he was nice about letting me leave a few minutes early when things were quiet.
"Good work tonight, Ji-Mang," he said, already starting the closing procedures. "See you Thursday?"
"Yeah, Thursday evening. Same time."
"Perfect. Get home safe."
I grabbed my bag from the back room, stuffed my work vest in my locker, and stepped out into the night.
It was properly dark now, that deep blue-black of a Seoul evening. The temperature had dropped, and I pulled my jacket tighter around myself. My apartment was about a twenty-minute walk, but I'd learned that cutting through campus shaved off five minutes.
Plus, campus at night was actually kind of nice. Quieter than during the day, the paths lit by soft lights, cherry blossom trees creating shadows that would be beautiful in a few weeks when they actually bloomed.
I took my usual route—past the main gate, through the central quad, cutting behind the library toward the residential area where my apartment was.
The quad was mostly empty. A few couples on benches, some late-night studiers hurrying to the library, a group of what looked like freshman doing something loud and incomprehensible near the fountain.
I was halfway across when I saw him.
Choi Bok-Jin.
He was walking through the courtyard from the opposite direction, phone in his hand, clearly reading something and not paying attention to his surroundings. The path lighting caught him perfectly—that golden evening light that made everything look softer, warmer.
And then, like something out of a drama, a leaf detached from one of the trees overhead and drifted down.
It landed directly on top of his head.
He didn't notice. Just kept walking, still absorbed in his phone, completely oblivious to the leaf sitting in his dark hair like the universe's gentlest prank.
I stopped walking.
It was ridiculous. It was the kind of moment that shouldn't mean anything—a leaf, a guy, a random coincidence. But something about it—the timing, the lighting, the fact that he looked so serious and focused while having a leaf on his head—made my chest feel tight.
He was about twenty meters away, still walking in my general direction but angled toward a different path.
I could call out to him. Tell him about the leaf. Use it as an excuse to talk, to maybe continue whatever that weirdly nice moment in the convenience store had been.
Or I could just let him walk by. Keep my head down, keep moving, keep focused on all the things that actually mattered. Law school applications. LEET prep. Money. Survival.
He was getting closer. Fifteen meters. Ten.
I needed to decide.