The alarm rang, piercing through the small apartment with the precision of a metronome. Yoon Seori groaned, rolling over and hitting the snooze button. For the third time this week, she had stayed up late, rewriting dialogue, taking notes from Kang Mirae's script, and juggling a dozen other responsibilities she couldn't afford to ignore.
Living alone in a tiny studio apartment in Seoul wasn't glamorous. The rent was just barely manageable, and her kitchenette was barely big enough to fit a frying pan. She had decorated the room with sticky notes, a small corkboard filled with pinned ideas, and a few books stacked precariously in the corner—her little attempt to make the space feel like home.
Her life as a rookie scriptwriter was… chaotic.
Her mornings were spent rushing through coffee, checking emails from producers, and editing small portions of scripts for her senior writers. Her afternoons were filled with assistant duties: fetching documents, preparing outlines, correcting typos, and sometimes even running to convenience stores because someone had forgotten an ingredient for a scene.
She liked writing. She loved storytelling. But most days, it felt like she was merely surviving the industry rather than thriving.
As she pulled on her coat and stepped out into the morning chill, Seori muttered under her breath: "Another day, another disaster waiting to happen."
The streets were already bustling. Delivery scooters zipped past pedestrians, and office workers hustled to their buildings. Seori clutched her bag, weaving through the crowd with practiced agility, all the while mentally running through the list of tasks Kang Mirae had left for her today.
Her first stop was the small office of the famous writer she assisted. Unlike many of her colleagues who worked from home, Kang Mirae insisted on a shared office. Seori understood why—though she rarely admitted it aloud. The energy, the immediacy of communication, the chaos—it forced everyone to stay alert. It was a small battlefield, and she had learned early that falling behind could mean disaster.
By the time she arrived, the office was already alive with movement. Kang Mirae was seated at her desk, scanning scripts with her usual intensity. Interns and junior assistants darted around like ants, carrying pages, staplers, and coffee cups. Seori quietly slid into her usual spot, attempting to blend into the chaos as she began checking emails and reviewing notes from yesterday's meeting.
Her life was a delicate balancing act. She was constantly managing time, prioritizing tasks, and surviving the subtle—and sometimes not-so-subtle—demands of her senior. There was no room for hesitation. One wrong move, one misplaced line of dialogue, and she would be reminded immediately that the world of scriptwriting was ruthless.
Still, despite the stress and endless workload, there were moments of quiet satisfaction. Watching a script come together, seeing actors bring words to life, feeling the rhythm of a story unfold—it made every struggle worth it.
Seori sighed, opening her laptop and glancing at the small pile of scripts on her desk. Today, she was assigned to review Kang Mirae's newest draft. A sense of anticipation fluttered in her chest. She had no idea who would be directing it yet, but the thought of working on a fresh project gave her a faint spark of excitement.
The morning passed in a blur of proofreading, cross-checking dialogue, and quickly responding to Kang Mirae's sudden bursts of demands. The tiny office, while chaotic, had a rhythm she had learned to follow—like a delicate dance. Every time Kang Mirae waved a hand, shouted a line, or barked an instruction, Seori moved in tandem, adjusting, correcting, fetching, and delivering with practiced speed.
At one point, Kang Mirae slammed her hand down on the table, her voice slicing through the low hum of typing and phone calls:
"Seori! My coffee! Now! You know the usual. Quick!"
Seori's stomach sank slightly, though she didn't flinch outwardly. She had long ago learned to treat these orders like part of the job. Smiling faintly, she picked up her bag and muttered, "Yes, Writer Kang."
As she passed one of her coworkers, the young assistant leaned toward her, whispering just softly enough for only Seori to hear:
"You know… Mirae really shouldn't treat you like her servant. She's always picking on you."
Seori's lips curved into a small, calm smile. "I know… but I'm used to it. This is just how things are."
Her coworker's eyes widened slightly at her calm acceptance, and then turned away, shaking their head with a mixture of pity and admiration.
Seori stepped out of the office building and into the bustling street, heading toward the café Kang Mirae favored. Her steps were brisk, her mind on the coffee she needed to fetch, and her thoughts on the overflowing tasks waiting for her back at the office.
At the same moment, a young man in a sleek coat—Jiwoon—was entering the same building in a hurry, focused on his own agenda and carrying a few important documents.
In the rush of the morning crowd, their paths crossed at the entrance. They brushed past each other in the narrow doorway, shoulders colliding lightly without a second glance. Neither noticed the other.
Seori adjusted her bag, muttering quietly, "Ah, crowded…"
Jiwoon continued inside, eyes on the lobby, still unaware of the brief brush that had just passed.
For both of them, it was just another fleeting moment in their busy mornings. But for the story of their lives, it was the first invisible thread tying their worlds together.
The world had nudged them, however lightly, onto the same path—though neither knew it yet.
And the day's chaos, the coffee run, and the script-filled office awaited, ready to pull them closer than either could have imagined.