The air in Busan didn't just blow; it clung. It was a heavy, restless thing, carrying the scent of drying kelp, diesel from the fishing boats, and the omnipresent tang of salt that could corrode steel if given enough time. For Han Seo-yoon, that air was the only clock she ever needed. She could tell the time of day by how the mist rolled off the Korea Strait and settled into the narrow, winding alleys of her neighborhood.
At the edge of the cliffside road sat "The Blue Anchor," her father's cafe. It wasn't a trendy, glass-walled establishment like the ones in Centum City. It was a small, wooden structure with peeling turquoise paint and windows that rattled whenever the wind got too ambitious. Inside, the smell of dark roasted beans fought a losing battle against the ocean breeze.
Seo-yoon sat at the corner table—the one with the deep scratch she had made with a compass back in middle school. Her graduation gown, a heavy drape of navy blue, felt itchy against her neck. She had spent the morning on a stage, moving in a blurred line of students, shaking hands and bowing until her back ached.
Her parents had been there, of course. Her mother had cried, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, while her father, Mr. Han, had stood as stiff as a lighthouse, his hands calloused from years of grinding beans and steam-cleaning milk wands. He hadn't said much, just squeezed her shoulder—a weight that felt like a silent question she wasn't ready to answer.
Graduation. To everyone else, it was a finish line. To her, it felt like standing on a pier with the tide coming in.
"Seo-yoon-ah," a voice broke through her thoughts.
She didn't have to look up to know it was Kwon Min-ho. He slid into the seat opposite her, smelling of the expensive citrus cologne she had gifted him for his birthday. He was still wearing his graduation sash, looking every bit the golden boy of their class—steady, kind, and dangerously easy to love.
"Your dad is looking for you," Min-ho said, reaching across the table to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the cold draft leaking through the window. "He says the afternoon rush is coming and his best part-timer is daydreaming."
"I'm not a part-timer anymore, Min-ho. I'm a graduate," she replied, her voice carrying that habitual edge of arrogance that people often mistook for confidence. She leaned back, crossing her arms. "I'm a woman of the world now."
Min-ho laughed, a soft, vibrating sound. "A woman of the world who still hasn't finished her university applications? The deadline for the early decision is tonight, Seo-yoon."
She felt a flicker of irritation. She hated being reminded of the clock. On the scarred wooden table sat her laptop, its screen glowing with two open tabs.
The first was Seoul National University (SNU). It was the safe choice. The "Min-ho" choice. It was a four-hour train ride away, a distance that felt like a mere skip across a puddle. They had talked about it for months—renting a small studio together near Gwanak-san, studying in the library until the sun came up, building a life in the heart of Korea.
The second tab was different. Hanshan University of Arts & Design (HUAD).
Every time she looked at the logo of the Chinese university, she felt a strange, magnetic pull. She had grown up obsessed with the sweeping, poetic cinematography of Chinese cinema—the way the light hit the ancient rooftops in Suzhou, the way the dialogue felt like a dance. She wanted to write scripts that lived in those shadows. She wanted to go where the history was written in stone and water, not just glass and steel.
"I'll do the SNU one first," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
"Good," Min-ho said, his expression relaxing. He took her hand, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles. "Seoul will be amazing. We'll be together. You'll write the best scripts Korea has ever seen, and I'll be the first one to read them."
Seo-yoon looked at him, her gaze lingering on the trust in his eyes. She felt like a fraud. She loved him—she was sure of it—but the thought of Seoul felt like a beautiful room with the windows locked shut.
"Wait for me outside?" she asked softly. "I just need to focus for a second."
He leaned over, kissing her forehead. "Don't take too long. Your mom is making a celebratory galbi tonight."
As he walked out, the bell above the door chimed a lonely note. Seo-yoon turned back to the screen. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She clicked on the SNU tab. Name. Address. Major: Film and Television.
She filled it out with a mechanical precision. Click. Save. Submit.
Then, she switched to the HUAD tab.
The air in the cafe seemed to grow still. She looked toward the counter, where her father was methodically cleaning a cup. He looked old. He looked like Busan—anchored and permanent.
She thought of the "arrogance" everyone accused her of. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was arrogant to want to leave this salt-crusted peace for a city where she knew no one, where her Mandarin was still clumsy and thick on her tongue.
But as she typed her name into the Hanshan application, her heart finally found its rhythm. Her fingers moved faster now. She didn't think about the distance. She didn't think about Min-ho waiting in the sea breeze outside. She only thought about the "Frame"—the vision of a life she hadn't built yet.
She pressed Submit.
The sound of the ocean outside suddenly seemed louder, crashing against the rocks below the cafe. Seo-yoon shut her laptop and gripped her bare wrist, her skin feeling cold and strangely expectant.
She had just built a bridge. Now, she just had to see if she was brave enough to cross it.