The announcement came in the morning.
Not through speakers.
Not with speeches.
Just a single sheet of paper posted on the office board.
I stood among other students. Not at the front. Not at the back.
I read the names one by one.
Then my eyes stopped.
My name was there.
Not bolded.
Not marked.
Printed plainly just enough to make my chest tighten for a moment.
I walked away before anyone could call me.
The news spread quietly.
In class, no one clapped. No one cheered. Only looks that lingered a little longer than usual.
When school ended, my friend walked beside me.
"So… you got in," he said.
I nodded.
"Busan?"
"Yeah."
He stayed silent for a few steps, then smiled faintly.
"That makes sense."
One word. No envy. No sadness.
"You were always just… in the wrong place," he added.
I didn't disagree.
We parted at the same intersection we had stood at for years.
No promises.
No dramatic goodbye.
But our steps didn't feel heavy.
In another hallway, I paused briefly.
She stood with a group of students, reading the same announcement. Her expression was serious, then softened into a small, calm smile.
I didn't know if the line she read was mine.
And I didn't try to find out.
That day, we simply stood in the same world
for the first time.
When evening came, I went home.
The workshop was closed. The lights were off. The house was quiet.
My father sat on the wooden bench, cleaning his hands with a cloth an old habit after long days.
I stood in front of him.
"Dad," I said. "I passed."
He didn't look up immediately.
He finished one last motion, then sat still.
For a few seconds, he said nothing.
Then he raised his head.
"Congratulations," he said.
No advice.
No warning.
Because he knew
holding me back now would only create the same regret, at a different time.
Inside me, there was no feeling of victory.
Only a strange, calm certainty.
My life was truly moving forward.