A Place to Stand

The midterms came and went like fog. They were thick and hard to get through, but they didn't really have a clear start or end. They showed up, felt heavy, and then disappeared like they didn't matter much. No big deal, no celebration.

Minjae aced every subject.

He always did.

It wasn't arrogance. Just inevitability.

His notes were meticulous. His recall, flawless. And yet, he never seemed particularly invested in the results. When he picked up his graded economics essay, he didn't even glance at the numerical score at first.

It was the comment that made him pause.

You think like someone who has already seen the system unravel. Let's talk.

Minjae stared at the line, written in smooth, confident penmanship, slightly angled. He folded the paper slowly, methodically. His fingers paused at the edge, pressing down on the crease with more force than necessary.

The words weren't praise. Not entirely.

They were curiosity. A kind that made him uneasy.

Someone had noticed.

---

The office of Professor Han was quieter than expected. Not silent—there was the muffled hum of a desk fan in the corner and the soft tapping of rain against the window—but quiet in the way a room becomes when it's rarely disturbed. Books lined every shelf, thick with dust in places. A box of green tea sat on the cabinet unopened, its plastic seal still intact.

Professor Han didn't offer tea.

He simply gestured toward a seat, then leaned forward over his desk.

"You're different, Yoo Minjae."

Minjae sat down, legs crossed neatly, his posture straight without stiffness. "I've heard," he said evenly.

Professor Han smiled faintly, amused but not dismissive. "I imagine you have. But I'm not talking about grades. Or even your writing style. I'm talking about the way you think."

Minjae didn't respond.

"You don't just solve problems," the professor went on. "You anticipate them. It's not theoretical. You write like someone who's already seen what happens after the system fails. And not in a cynical way. Just... detached."

That word again.

Detached.

Minjae let a moment pass before speaking. "Is that a problem?"

"No. But it doesn't happen often," Han said, leaning back a little. "You remind me of a man I knew in London. He was a hedge fund manager. Very smart. He retired early. One day, over coffee, he told me he was tired of always being right."

Minjae didn't change his face, but there was a tiny flicker in his eyes—maybe he recognized that. "What happened to him?"

"He bought a bookstore. Spent his days reorganizing paperbacks and drinking bad espresso. Never spoke of finance again."

Minjae considered that, then tilted his head. "Is that what you think I should do?"

"No," Han said, smiling. "But I wonder what you want to do."

That made Minjae pause.

For just a second, he considered the truthful answer.

He wanted to manipulate systems. To read the hidden languages of movement and change. To pull patterns from chaos. To see the world down to its bones and bend its pieces into meaning. Not for power. Not even for gain.

Just to understand.

But that wasn't something you said aloud. Not here. Not now.

"I'm still deciding," he said instead.

The professor didn't press. "Let me know when you figure it out."

---

That night, Minjae sat by the window in the common room, notebook on his lap. The campus lights cast long shadows through the blinds, striping the floor in quiet gold.

He flipped to a fresh page and scribbled a line of numbers. Ratios, references. Half of it was instinct. Then, on the edge of the margin, he wrote two words:

And then

He stared at the words for a long time.

There was always an "and then." Even after endings. Especially after endings.

---

The following weekend brought an unexpected reprieve. Warmer air. Blue skies for once. A mutual friend of Taesung's—someone loud and vaguely familiar from a workshop—invited them to a casual barbecue by the Han River.

It was the kind of thing Minjae usually declined without thought.

But Hana was going.

So he went.

She showed up carrying a tote bag. Inside were homemade mandu and a sketchbook that stuck out between the containers. Her cheeks were red from the sun, and a strand of hair stuck to her forehead.

"Do I smell like garlic?" she asked without greeting.

"Yes," Minjae said.

She gave him a look, then laughed. "Good. Means it worked."

They set up near the river. Small charcoal grill. Folding chairs. Paper plates and soda cans. The kind of gathering that was more memory than event, destined to blur at the edges over time.

Minjae stood by the grill, fanning the coals. The scent of sizzling meat drifted upward as voices and laughter swelled behind him.

Hana walked over with two cups of cider. She gave him one, took a sip from hers, and then leaned her shoulder lightly against his.

"You look like someone who's watching a documentary," she said.

"I'm just… processing," he replied, eyes fixed on the grill.

She looked at him sideways. "Try participating. You might like it."

He handed her a grilled skewer without turning. "This counts, right?"

"Barely."

But she smiled anyway and took a bite.

---

Later, when the sun started going down and the wind got colder, they all came together near the water. The city lights across the river began to turn on, shining like stars far away.

Someone asked Minjae what he wanted to be.

A casual question. Tossed like a pebble into the current.

He hesitated. Not because he didn't know, but because the answer didn't belong to this world—not completely.

"I want to understand everything," he said at last.

A few people chuckled. One made a joke about philosophy majors. The moment passed.

But Hana didn't laugh.

She just looked at him—steadily, quietly—her sketchbook resting unopened on her lap.

As if she heard something no one else did.

---

Back at the dorm that night, Taesung was sprawled across his bed, laptop open beside him and one sock half-removed.

"You ever think about the future?" he asked suddenly.

"Constantly," Minjae replied from the desk.

Taesung sat up. "Not like... big-picture stuff. I mean your future. Being someone. Doing something that leaves a mark."

Minjae didn't look up. "Some marks are meant to be hidden."

Taesung nodded slowly. "Still counts, though."

Minjae turned to him, thoughtful. "Yeah. Still counts."

---

Later, in the silence that followed, Minjae returned to his notebook.

He opened to the blank page he'd left untouched earlier.

He didn't write on it.

But he didn't close it either.

There was something honest in leaving it open. An unspoken intention. Like a breath held between moments.

---

Outside, the city pulsed with quiet, soft light.

Streetlamps hummed.

Windows glowed.

The river flowed on, unseen but steady.

And somewhere beneath that luminous hush, Yoo Minjae stood—not above it all, not apart from it—

—but within.