The first kick of the morning air hits my lungs sharp and cold as I step onto the track. Mist clings to the asphalt in thin, stubborn sheets.
Footfalls echo faintly, quick and deliberate. I tighten the laces on my shoes, careful not to overdo it; today isn't about speed. It's about repetition, control. Conditioning the body to respond predictably, to conserve energy, to endure.
And yet, even in the precision of repetition, small inefficiencies stick out.
I adjust the straps on my bag, then tug my glasses down over the bridge of my nose. They slide immediately. Not by much, barely noticeable, but enough.
Enough to disrupt focus, enough to force me to tilt my head mid-step, to shift my gaze away from the track's centerline. A small inefficiency, but persistent.
I stop. Right there, mid-stride. Hands on knees, back hunched slightly. Breath comes fast, not from exertion, but from irritation. Glasses slip again when I straighten, fogging slightly in the cold morning.
I can feel the delay in timing creeping into my rhythm, a fractional loss of efficiency that compounds with every step.
I hate inefficiencies.
I glance up. The track is empty. The chain-link fence rattles in a lazy wind. Nothing to distract me, and yet the irritation won't go. I frown, adjusting the nose pads, twisting the arms behind my ears.
A pause longer than it should be. I hate these pauses more than anything.
A sharp click cuts through the misted silence.
"Joon-seok."
I look up. Ha-eun leans against the railing at the edge of the track, arms crossed, head tilted. No smile. Eyes sharp. Always observing.
"Your glasses. Still?" She says. Click of the tongue, sharp.
I shrug. No reply. Not worth the conversation. I shift my gaze back to the track, check the alignment of my stance, check my footing, and track the angles between my legs and shoulders. Awareness never stops, even in annoyance.
She moves closer, steps light on the asphalt. "Why are you still wearing them when they clearly slow you down?"
I inhale slowly. Timing, decision-making. Fight or deflect? Argument or endure? Neither. Not now. Not worth it. I let it pass.
Her brow furrows. "You know…we could fix that." She gestures at me with one hand, impatient. "Optometrist. Adjustment. Lens change. Could make a difference."
I don't answer. Not immediately. Hands resting on knees, I feel the tension in my hamstrings. Controlled effort is essential. Controlled response. Not every challenge requires confrontation. Some require acceptance.
She doesn't wait for a reply.
That's the sharp edge of Ha-eun, decisive, unilateral, and unflinching. Before I can speak, she's already pulling her phone from her pocket, fingers tapping quickly. Appointment scheduled.
Notification sent. Calendar marked. No explanation, no waiting for consent.
I remain crouched, breathing measured. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She doesn't meet my gaze directly. Eyes scanning, evaluating, making sure I haven't lost control of posture, form, focus.
"Done." She says, finally. Sharp, clipped. A statement, not a request.
I stand. My glasses slide again, this time at the bridge of my nose, fogged from breath and exertion. I push them back. Adjustment feels deliberate, considered.
I nod once, a minimal acknowledgment. Enough. No gratitude spoken. Not needed.
The inefficiency remains temporarily, but the potential solution is now in place.
The fact that she acted without asking irritates me, but deeper irritation comes from the realization: I've been pretending that minor inconveniences—glasses slipping, misaligned laces, fogged vision—are humility, a test of endurance.
That pretense has weight, subtle but cumulative.
I resume my run, footfalls deliberate, cadence measured.
Mist swirls at ankle height, cool and damp. Each stride feels slightly smoother, and alignment is marginally better. Awareness spreads through every muscle.
Efficiency extends from posture to vision. Small changes compound.
Her presence lingers at the railing. Watching, assessing, but not interfering. Observation without interference. That alone is instructive. People can adjust, yes.
But the most effective changes are sometimes implemented externally, beyond pride or pretense.
Back at school, I notice small efficiencies in other areas. Backpack straps adjusted so the weight sits evenly, books stacked deliberately, the edge of notebooks aligned with the desk. Minor. Subtle. Unnoticed by others.
But they reduce hesitation, reduce wasted motion, and improve timing. Conditioning isn't just physical, it's procedural.
Ha-eun approaches again during lunch. Hands tucked under her elbows, leaning slightly forward, as if studying me. Noticing. She doesn't speak immediately. Waits, letting observation do its work.
"Glasses?" She finally asks. Voice calm, but with the same clipped precision she always carries.
I glance at the frame, then at her. "Scheduled." I say. No tone of thanks. Just acknowledgment. Words are tools, not gestures.
She studies me for a long moment. Eyes narrowing slightly, measuring reaction time, and subtle micro-expressions around the jaw and eyes. Noticing. Testing. I shift posture, a fraction, spine straightens minutely, shoulders squared, gaze steady but not confrontational.
Micro-adjustments, subconscious.
"Good." She says, finally. Then leaves. Not praise. Not commentary. Efficiency again.
I return to observing the room, scanning subtle cues. Classmates moving papers, passing notes, positioning themselves in line with social norms.
Teachers are shifting weight from foot to foot, checking attendance lists. Everyone adjusts slightly around variables they notice unconsciously. Presence matters. Influence is quiet, unspoken, constant.
After school, I'm back on track.
The appointment is scheduled for later in the week. Glasses feel different now: slightly heavier, slightly looser, but the awareness of their position is sharper. I adjust mid-stride without thought.
Timing maintained. Rhythm uninterrupted. Controlled effort, uninterrupted.
Footfalls echo. Cold morning air mixes with the faint scent of asphalt and lingering dew. I practice turns, accelerating, and decelerating with deliberate care.
Each step, each pivot, each breath calculated. Effort managed, not maximal. Sustainability prioritized.
Ha-eun doesn't interrupt again, not immediately. She observes from the edge, quiet and precise. Clicks her tongue occasionally at missteps, tiny inefficiencies in posture or timing, but she doesn't touch them.
Observation only. Awareness becomes reinforcement.
I pause mid-stride.
Breathing slow.
Hands resting on knees.
Eyes forward.
Vision blurred slightly at the edges, not a failure, just a cue. Adjustment possible. Recognition of weakness is not shame. Weakness doesn't need to be permanent. Some inefficiencies are optional. Some can be corrected.
The appointment will fix the glasses. The act itself, accepting it, fixes more. Pride, pretense, minor stubbornness. Holding onto minor inconvenience as a test of endurance. A mental weight removed, efficiency regained.
Back in the hallways, the changes manifest quietly.
I move with subtly improved awareness, steps measured, posture controlled, hands in pockets aligned with hip rotation, and shoulders balanced. Not noticeable to anyone but me.
The body remembers before the mind does.
Even in class, even in mundane tasks—opening books, setting pens on the desk, turning pages, tracking lines of text, I notice small adjustments. Efficiency propagates outward. The minor victory compounds.
By evening, I feel the difference in controlled exertion.
Foot placement precise. Breathing steady. Glasses sliding no longer a distraction; the anticipation of adjustment itself reinforces posture and timing.
Small problems recognized, corrected, and optional weaknesses removed. At home, I reflect on the day while doing my drills in the dim light of my room. Shadowboxing, footwork, core engagement.
The movement flows more smoothly.
I adjust mid-pivot with minimal conscious thought. Eyes forward, shoulders squared, chest lifted. The inefficiency of yesterday's small annoyances doesn't repeat.
Awareness fills the gaps.
Some weaknesses are optional. Some inefficiencies are self-imposed. Removing them isn't about convenience; it's about control. Subtle, deliberate, practical control.
Before sleep, I lie flat on the floor.
Spine aligned.
Core engaged lightly.
Mental replay of posture, foot placement, angles, and timing. Awareness of vision—the bridge of the nose, frames adjusting, lenses reflecting light.
Small, practical changes, integrated into motion, into observation, into posture.
Ha-eun's intervention was quiet but effective. No argument. No recognition demanded. Just a solution imposed, accepted, and internalized.
Efficiency extends beyond the physical; it reaches into choice, pride, and pretense.
Tomorrow, I will notice other inefficiencies. They are inevitable. Minor delays in rhythm, posture, timing, and thought.
But each can be observed, analyzed, and removed without spectacle. Without drama. Without wasted effort.
Some weaknesses are optional. Some choices are survival, extended into preparation. Some control isn't about display, it's about permanence.
The glasses sit slightly crooked on my face as I drift into the quiet of the night. Awareness persists. Small, deliberate corrections anchor posture, breathing, and presence.
Efficiency becomes habit. Observation becomes second nature. Control, deliberate, practical, silent.
And tomorrow, the track will echo with footfalls sharper, rhythm steadier, awareness deeper. Inefficiencies noted. Weaknesses addressed. Survival refined. Some weaknesses, I realize finally, don't need endurance. They need acknowledgment, and then removal.
The night is still. My body rests, but my mind rehearses. Practical changes are permanent only when acknowledged. Some weaknesses are optional.