There are only a few days left until the CSAT, and somehow, everything around me feels different—like the world has turned down its volume except for the sound of clocks ticking. Time used to feel like this distant, wide road stretching endlessly in front of me. But now it feels like a hallway getting narrower and narrower, walls pressing in on both sides. Even the sky looks different, as if it's waiting for something. Maybe I'm imagining things. Maybe pressure makes the world look heavier than it is. But every morning when I wake, the air feels a little thicker, and every night when I lie down, my thoughts feel a little louder.
School isn't quiet either—not in the usual loud, chaotic way, but quiet in the way hospitals are quiet. Everyone moves as though their souls are somewhere else, nerves riding on their skin, eyes darting from one clock to another. Even the teachers speak more softly, like raising their voices might break one of us. The hallways feel tense, like invisible strings are stretched from wall to wall and we're all walking through them. Students sit hunched at their desks long before class begins, flipping through books with frantic energy, and even the ones who used to joke around during breaks now sit in silence, tapping their feet or biting their nails.
For me, being quiet isn't new. I'm always quiet. But these days, silence feels different—like instead of being the one who's separate from everyone, I'm suddenly surrounded by people whose anxiety matches my own. It should make me feel less alone, but somehow it makes me feel even more suffocated.
During morning study, I can barely focus. I flip through my notes while my mind drifts elsewhere. Words blur, formulas lose meaning. I try to remind myself that I've studied enough over the past year to build a foundation stronger than these shaky moments. But knowing something logically is different from believing it emotionally. My hands feel cold, and every so often I catch myself shaking my leg under the desk. I glance around, making sure no one notices. I hate standing out. Even in small, accidental ways.
At lunch, my classmates sit in small groups, discussing mock exam scores and strategies for the final stretch. I stay at my usual seat near the window, eating quietly. A few of them greet me politely but don't approach. They know I don't talk much, and to be fair, I don't know how to keep conversations alive anyway. Most of the time, silence feels safer.
As I eat, I watch the outside world through the window—the schoolyard, a few kids running during break, the autumn leaves swirling in small circles where the wind catches them. The scene looks peaceful, almost unreal compared to the pressure inside the building.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath.
Only a few days left.
Just a few.
I tell myself that every hour.
When I get home, the house is quieter than usual. Hyuk hyung is probably still at his university, and Harin is likely at one of her club activities, where she screams loud enough for three people. Appa is out working late today, and the only sound in the house is the clinking of dishes as eomma cooks dinner.
I drop my bag beside my room and head to the kitchen to wash my hands. The warm smell of soup fills the air—seaweed and savory broth. Eomma glances at me over her shoulder and gives a gentle smile.
"You look tired," she says, not in a judging way, but in a way that makes me feel seen.
"I'm okay," I answer softly. My voice always sounds small when I speak after a long day of silence at school.
"You're allowed to be tired," she replies warmly. "You're human."
Sometimes I wonder how mothers know exactly what to say. It's like they can read their children like open books, while I'm still trying to understand the first chapter of myself. I sit at the table while she sets down a bowl of soup. She doesn't push me to talk. She knows I don't. The quiet between us is comfortable, the kind that wraps around me like a blanket. I take a sip of the hot broth, and the warmth spreads through my chest, easing some of the tension that's been there all day. After dinner, I return to my room. My desk is waiting—neat, organized, a battlefield I've arranged perfectly for the final push. I sit down and begin reviewing notes, focusing on weak points. But the words don't stick. My mind feels like it's floating slightly above everything I'm trying to focus on.
Every so often, I catch myself staring at nothing. Thinking about nothing and everything at once. Thinking about failure. About disappointing eomma and appa. About falling short after trying so hard. About the version of myself I've been chasing—strong, capable, perfect. And the fear that I might not measure up to that image I've built. I shake my head and refocus. I have to. There isn't time for spiraling. Hours pass quietly. Then someone knocks—once, softly this time. The door opens a crack and Harin peeks inside.
"Hey," she says, not barging in for once. "Can I come in?"
I blink. Harin never asks to come in. She just appears. "...Yeah."
She steps inside holding a small plate with cut fruit—apples and persimmons. She sets it on my desk without saying anything and sits on my bed with her legs crossed, fidgeting with her hair tie. She doesn't talk. That alone tells me something's different. I turn to look at her. She's staring at the wall.
"What is it?" I ask quietly.
She sighs. "I just… wanted to make sure you're okay."
I blink again, slower this time. Harin is loud, annoying, and dramatic—she's a walking thunderstorm. But she's also the person who notices things more deeply than anyone gives her credit for.
"I'm fine," I say softly.
"You always say that," she mutters. "Even when you're not."
I don't respond. I'm not good at telling people how I feel. I'm not even good at knowing how I feel half the time. She leans back against the wall. "You know… you don't have to be strong all the time. Even if you're the quiet type, you don't have to carry everything alone." I look down at my notes, the words blurring again. She stands after a moment and pats my hair lightly, almost awkwardly. "Eat the fruit. And sleep early. You're scaring me a little with how pale you look, Oppa." She leaves before I can respond. I stare at the door after it closes. Then I look at the fruit. I didn't realize how hungry I was until that moment.
Later at night, the house eventually fills with normal sounds again. Hyuk hyung comes home laughing about something that happened at university. Appa returns with his usual calm presence. Harin shouts something from downstairs, and eomma responds with a warm nagging tone.
The family noise takes up space inside the house. Inside my chest. It reminds me that even if I'm terrified, even if I doubt myself, I'm not facing this alone. I'm surrounded by people who care in their loud, messy, loving ways.
The night grows quiet again, and I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. The air feels heavy, but not suffocating. The days ahead are frightening, and my heart still thuds too fast whenever I think about the exam. But I'm still breathing. I'm still here.
Just a few more days. Just a few. The world keeps spinning whether I'm ready or not. I close my eyes. This time, sleep comes a little easier.