The last days of school passed quietly.
There was no clear countdown. No overwhelming relief. Just classrooms growing emptier, desks left unused, chalkboards cleaned less often.
I packed my books one by one. Not all of them would come with me. Some I left in the drawer memories that didn't need to be carried, only remembered.
Students took photos in the schoolyard. They laughed. They promised to meet again.
I stood a little apart.
Some promises only work for people who stay in the same place.
That afternoon, I didn't go home right away.
I turned toward a small street near the market. The smell of hot oil and warm rice greeted me. In the corner stood the gimbap stall simple folding tables, a cloth banner already faded.
My friend stood behind the counter, rolling rice with practiced hands. His parents moved around him, familiar and steady.
I stepped closer.
"I wanted to say goodbye," I said.
His mother smiled. "Going to the city?"
"Yes."
"Take care of yourself," his father said.
My friend stopped rolling for a moment. "So you're really leaving."
I nodded.
We bought two gimbap and sat on plastic chairs, eating in silence as the market filled the gaps between our words.
"I used to think I could walk alone," I said at last.
He waited.
"Now I know," I continued, "if I ever succeed… I'll need you beside me."
He laughed softly. "You talk like someone starting a company."
"Maybe," I said.
He sighed, then patted my shoulder. "I don't have much. Just this stall. And hands that can work."
"That's enough," I replied. "More than enough."
There were no more promises.
Because the best ones aren't spoken
they're made by leaving space in your future.
That night, my small suitcase waited by the door.
My father sat outside, watching the road that led out of the village.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly.
I nodded.
And for the first time, I felt ready to leave
not because I wanted to escape,
but because I knew where I could return.