I must have drifted off the moment my pen slowed down. When I finally blinked my eyes open, my cheek was pressed against the grainy paper of my sketchbook, leaving a faint charcoal smudge on my skin. I checked the time—I'd been out for only thirty minutes, but my stomach was roaring. A single slice of jam-heavy toast wasn't enough to fuel a dying woman, let alone a designer under this much pressure.
I stumbled into the kitchen, the quiet of the apartment amplified by the dim evening light. I decided on pasta, the rhythmic chopping of garlic and the sizzle of olive oil centering me. Soon, the rich, savory aroma filled the open-concept space, drifting toward the bedrooms.
I dished out a portion, the steam rising in curls. I hesitated, then walked toward the gap separating our rooms. I knocked softly on Sean's door. "Sean? I made pasta if you're hungry."
No response. I figured he was deep in sleep, exhausted from the move. But just as I turned back to the kitchen, the front door clicked open. Sean walked in, looking a bit wind-swept, carrying a brown paper package that smelled of soy and fried ginger.
"You're awake," he said, offering a tired smile. "I checked on you earlier, but you were out cold. I was starving, so I went out to find some food."
He set the package on the small dining table. "Ordering was a nightmare," he admitted with a short laugh. "Most of the apps are entirely in Hangeul. It took me forever to figure it out, so I took a stroll while I waited for the pickup. You know, Korea might not be so bad. The streets are incredibly clean, and it's view is... actually quite nice,not as cold as London too.
We sat down at the dining table together. I had hoped he might try a bit of my pasta, but he insisted on his takeout, eager to finally taste authentic Korean street food. We ate in a silence that felt heavier than usual. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, noticing how he seemed focused only on his food or his phone. Even though we were sharing this intimate space, it felt like he was intentionally keeping a wall up. It was as if he was avoiding me.
"I should get back to it," he said, clearing his space. "I need to get familiar with the market trends here before tomorrow. Take care Lara he said and sped off to his room ,the sound of the door closing echoing in the apartment.
"Okay" I whispered to his retreating back.
By the time I finished my meal and washed the dishes, it was past 10:00 am. The creative block was still there, a solid wall in my mind. Restless, I pulled out my phone and began scrolling through local tags.
That's when I saw it: an Intermax post tagging Kim Shi-na. There was a pop-up fashion show happening at a major mall nearby. It was a showcase for "New Blood" designers—rising stars in the Seoul scene.
Maybe this is it, I thought. Maybe I need to see what the competition looks like.
I went into my room and changed into a simple black top and matching trousers. It was chilly in Mapo, but not the biting damp cold of London. I pulled my signature black hoodie over the outfit and grabbed a black face mask. In Seoul, the mask was common, but for me, it was the final piece of my armor. I didn't want the stares; I just wanted to be a pair of eyes in the dark.
I reached into my bag and felt the cool plastic of the credit card Sean had handed me. Martha might not care about my feelings , but they paid me well, I was doing quite well for someone my age ,and If I was going to die in less than a year, I was going to spend every bit of their money finding a reason to live.
I slipped out of the apartment quietly, leaving Sean to his market research, and hailed a taxi. Destination: The Lotte Mall.
I stepped out of the taxi into the bright, unforgiving midday sun. The driver had been patient, helping me navigate the colorful banknotes that still felt like play money in my hands. Once he drove off, I turned to face the Lotte Mall. It was a massive, gleaming glass fortress that seemed to touch the sky, reflecting the hustle of Mapo around it.
I took a deep breath, pulled my hoodie up to shield my face, and stepped inside.
The mall was a sensory overload. A typical Korean mall isn't just a place to shop; it's a polished, multi-level universe. The floors were so clean they mirrored the bright LED displays of high-end brands like Chanel and Dior. There was a specific scent in the air—a mix of expensive perfume, fresh-baked pastries from the basement food hall, and that crisp, filtered air-conditioning smell.
I followed the sleek digital signage toward the fashion wing. This section was even more vibrant. Mannequins were dressed in the "K-style" I had been studying—muted earth tones, oversized blazers, and effortless layering. In the center of the atrium, a temporary runway had been set up. Reporters with high-end cameras and fashion vloggers with gimbal-mounted phones were buzzing around the front rows.
I stood at the very back, trying to blend into a pillar. On stage, a young designer named Kim Jun-lee was presenting her collection. Her work was impressive—clean lines with a modern Korean twist. I was so engrossed in her use of asymmetric pleats that I didn't sense the person moving directly behind me.
Thud.
I collided with someone, and the unmistakable heat of hot coffee splashed across the floor—and onto a woman's expensive-looking beige coat. I froze. The sound of the spill made several people in the back rows turn around
.
"Yah! Are you blind?" the woman shrieked in Korean, her face contorting in rage. "Look at my coat! Do you have any idea how much this costs?"
"I'm so sorry, I am so sorry," I stammered, my London accent thick with panic.
The woman paused, looking puzzled by my English. "Remove that hood," she demanded sharply. "Let me see who is so careless."
It was a strange request, but under the pressure of the crowd's gaze, I reached up and pulled the hoodie back. A collective gasp seemed to ripple through the small circle of onlookers. The woman's eyes widened as she took in my deep, dark skin and my natural hair.
Her face twisted into a look of pure disgust. She muttered a racial slur in Korean—the word nigga—followed by a string of insults. "Why do people like you come here and cause a nuisance?" she hissed, thinking I couldn't understand her. "Go back to your own country if you can't even walk straight."
She turned and marched away, leaving me standing there like a broken statue. A cleaner rushed over to mop up the coffee, and I apologized to them in a whisper, my heart sinking into my shoes. I could feel the eyes of the fashion elite still on me. Behind my mask, my face was burning, I immediately felt embarrassed and left there
I pulled my hoodie back up, my chest aching with a sudden, sharp regret. Why did I come here? I wondered. What was I thinking
I was walking away, my head bowed, when a voice called out from behind me.
"Miss? Hello! Excuse me!"
The English was accented but warm. I turned to see Kim Jun-lee, the designer from the stage. She had rushed towards me her eyes full of genuine concern.
"I saw what happened," she said, catching her breath. "I am so sorry for her behavior. Please, do not think we are all like that. Most people in Korea are very nice. Do not feel down because of one ignorant person."
For a moment, the weight in my chest lifted. Her kindness was a sudden, bright spark in the dark. "Thank you," I whispered. "That means a lot."
"Jun-lee! We need you for the interview!" someone shouted from the crowd
She looked back, then turned to me with a quick smile. "I must go. But please, take care of yourself. You have very beautiful eyes."she said and ran off.
As she ran back to her spotlight, I stood there for a moment longer.