There are, I've decided, exactly three types of silence in a classroom.
There's the good silence, the lazy, post-lunch buzz where the teacher is droning on about something unimportant and you're sketching a dragon on your desk. There's the bad silence, the one right after someone asks a question so stupid the entire room goes quiet with second-hand embarrassment.
And then there's this one. The Test Silence.
The only sound in the room was the ssak-ssak-ssak of thirty graphite pencils committing acts of academic genius, all set to the soundtrack of the wall clock's merciless tick... tock.
I, on the other hand, was having a cultural crisis.
My eyes drifted from the clock back to my paper.
Question 4: Discuss the primary achievements of King Gwangjong of Goryeo and their impact on the kwagŏ examination system.
I stared at the Hangul, the elegant circles and lines that I had spent four years of my life memorizing. My brain, in an act of petty rebellion, supplied me with exactly three useful Korean phrases: Juseyo (Please give me), Hwajangsil eodi-yeyo? (Where is the bathroom?), and Maneu padak (Garlic-crusted fried chicken), my favorite one, by the way.
None of which were helping me with King Gwangjong.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
When I'd pictured my exchange year in Seoul, I'd pictured neon-drenched nights in Hongdae. I'd pictured late-night trips to the convenience store for triangle kimbap. I'd pictured joining a band, writing songs, learning taekwondo and generally being the cool, enigmatic foreign exchange student from a K-drama.
I had not, under any circumstances, pictured failing a history test on a Tuesday morning.
My leg bounced under the desk, a frantic rhythm against the polished linoleum. How did I even get here? Not just this desk, but... here. A scholarship student at one of the most prestigious arts and sports high schools in Seoul, wearing a blazer that cost more than my entire guitar pedal collection back in Cherkasy.
The truth, embarrassing as it was, had nothing to do with academic ambition.
It had to do with Minecraft.
And a girl, of course.
Her username was LunarRabbit_04. I was 13. She was my first girlfriend. And my first, well, e-girlfriend. Her name was Min-seo, she lived in Seoul, and she was, to my hormone-addled brain, the most sophisticated person on earth. She taught me my first words through the server chat.
Annyeong, she'd typed, after I'd saved her from a creeper. Jagiya, she'd called me. My honey. Bogoshipo, I'd typed back, my heart hammering. I miss you.
Shivers went down my back because of cringe I felt now.
It was the most profound, dramatic, and emotionally devastating relationship of my entire 13-year-old life. It lasted two months.
She was the one who sent me the link. "This is my school," she'd messaged, all casual. "It's famous for music and sport. Maybe you can come here one day and be a trainee."
I'd clicked it. I'd stared at the website for hours. The sprawling campus, the cherry blossoms blooming over the pathways, the students in their impossibly chic uniforms, the state-of-the-art music studios. It looked like a palace. It looked like a dream.
I'd promised I would. I'd visit her. We'd meet by the front gate.
And then, one day, LunarRabbit_04 just... stopped logging on. Last online: 1,826 days ago. No goodbye. No explanation. Just... gone.
I was heartbroken. Full-on, listen-to-Linkin-Park-in-the-dark, "nobody understands my pain" heartbroken
The idea of Korea, which started as a pixelated romance, solidified into something real. Even long after I'd forgotten the actual name of her school or what, exactly, the website even looked like. It was just "Min-seo's school" in my head, a place that probably didn't even exist the way I remembered it. It just became "Seoul." The goal.
To think about it now… What was the emblem?
My eyes snapped to the corner of my test paper. A small, stylized crest. A willow tree and a crescent moon.
A soft chime, impossibly polite for a school bell, echoed through the hall.
"Pencils down, everyone."
Students around me sighed, stretching their arms. The girl in front of me, the one with the impossibly perfect hair, stacked her papers neatly. I looked down at my own. It was a wasteland.
Ms. Choi, our history teacher and the school's cultural coordinator, walked the aisles. She was in her thirties, sharp but kind, and one of the few teachers who didn't seem terrified of the foreign exchange kid. She paused at my desk, her eyes scanning the vast, empty spaces where my knowledge of the Goryeo dynasty should have been.
She didn't sigh. She didn't scold. She just gave me a small, patient smile.
"San-gun," she said, using the formal-yet-warm name I'd chosen. Oleksandr was a mouthful. Alex was boring. "San" (산), meaning 'mountain,' felt simple. Strong.
Right now, I felt more like a molehill.
"Please see me after class," Ms. Choi said quietly.
I nodded, the heat rising in my neck.
So much for being the cool, enigmatic K-drama lead. A month in, and I wasn't even passing the 'awkward side character' test.
This was not fine. This was the absolute, total opposite of fine.