Chapter 1: The First Frame of My Movie Had Just Begun to Roll
Ever since I can remember, I have dreamed of becoming a film director. My dad and I used to watch behind-the-scenes footage from TV shows and movies all the time. I absolutely loved discovering all the secrets behind the cameras: how stunt doubles managed to pull off all those acrobatics, how a scene where the main character looks into a mirror is filmed without showing the camera behind them, or simply how they managed to hide it altogether.
When I was little, all of this seemed like magic to me. However, it all took on a completely new meaning around the age of 14, when I discovered the universe of K-dramas. What started as mere curiosity in front of the screen quickly transformed into a consuming passion for Korean culture, music, and language. Between sleepless nights spent reading subtitles and playlists packed with K-pop, I made myself a promise: one day, I would create my own stories, right there, in the heart of Seoul.
But the road from a simple teenage dream to the gates of Chung-Ang University was incredibly hard. Since the Film Department was taught almost entirely in Korean, proficiency in the language was a mandatory and extremely strict admission criterion. Over the past few years, my life was reduced to dictionaries, hundreds of characters memorized daily, and endless hours of studying. I worked tirelessly to achieve a fluent level—a level that would not only allow me to survive on my own in a completely foreign country but also prove to the admissions committee professors that I deserved a seat in their lecture halls.
Perhaps, in the meantime, the questions of my childhood had found their answers, but my passion for the creative process remained alive. That stubborn desire helped me get through every single moment when I wanted to give up, and today, my sacrifices took shape. My dream stopped being just a script in my mind and became reality.
At the end of February, after a long flight that seemed to suspend time somewhere above the continents, the plane’s wheels finally touched down on the runway of Incheon International Airport.
There were only a few days left until the beginning of March, when the semester was officially set to start at Chung-Ang University. As I walked through the massive terminal, flanked by giant digital screens and the hustle and bustle of hundreds of travelers from all corners of the world, I felt the weight of my decision for the very first time. The air inside the airport smelled of fresh coffee, disinfectant, and that specific scent of new technology, but as I approached the sliding glass doors to head out toward the taxi area, the sharp, freezing air of Seoul hit me. February was saying goodbye with temperatures near zero degrees, and my breath turned into fine clouds of steam.
Bundling up tightly in my coat and dragging behind me the suitcase that sheltered my entire life, I stopped for a second in the middle of the rush. Around me, everything unfolded at a dizzying speed: announcements over the loudspeakers alternated rapidly between Korean and English, bright signs guided me toward the high-speed trains bound for the city center, and ahead of me stretched a labyrinth of suspended highways and skyscrapers getting lost in the Korean winter mist.
My heart began to pound wildly in my chest. This was no longer a simple TV show I could stop with a pause button. I was right there, all alone, in Seoul. A completely blank page on which I was about to write my own movie.
Following the illuminated signs, I made my way to the outdoor platform and bought a ticket for the limousine bus heading directly to the university area. When the massive, elegant vehicle pulled up to the curb, the driver greeted me with a polite bow and placed my suitcase in the luggage compartment. I sank into the wide, plush seat next to the window, feeling the exhaustion of the flight begin to catch up with me, but my eyes remained wide open, glued to the glass.
The bus started smoothly, leaving behind the sci-fi architecture of Incheon Airport. We sped across the massive Incheon Bridge, suspended above the sea in a landscape blanketed by a late-winter gray mist. As we approached Seoul, the highway began to wind along the Han River. My heart beat faster as I caught sight of the first skyscrapers, the gigantic tower blocks, and the silhouettes of the mountains surrounding the city. Everything looked like it was taken straight out of a K-drama, except this time, I was the main character on the screen.
After more than an hour’s ride, the bus stopped in the Heukseok-dong neighborhood. When I stepped off, the biting February air hit me again, but so did the vibrant energy of the university area: cafes on every street corner, hurried students with backpacks, and small shops with glowing signs in Korean.
I walked up the steep hill leading to the Chung-Ang University campus—Seoul’s hills are a real challenge, especially when you’re dragging a huge suitcase! The student dormitory stood modern and imposing among the still-leafless trees.
A few minutes later, after quick formalities at the reception where I proudly used my first practiced phrases in Korean, I opened the door to my room. It was small but cozy and bright, with a simple bed, an empty desk waiting for its books, and a large window overlooking the campus. I dropped my luggage, sat on the edge of the bed, and looked around. I was tired, scared, but for the first time in a long time, completely happy. I had made it home.
The silence in the room didn’t last long, however, as my thoughts began racing in every direction again. From the official email received from the university, I knew I wouldn’t be living alone. I was going to share this space with a Korean student named Park Ji-soo. Aside from those few letters written on my phone screen, I knew absolutely nothing about her. I had no idea what she looked like, what she was studying, or if our habits would match. Was she a morning person or a night owl? Would she find it weird to share a room with a foreigner?
My gaze drifted to the second desk, still perfectly empty, and a shadow of anticipation filled my chest. Even though I longed for a moment of rest after the exhausting journey, every sound of footsteps in the corridor made me turn my head toward the door, hoping the handle would turn and I would finally meet Ji-soo. I hoped with all my heart that she would be a nice girl who would help me get through the homesickness more easily and who might even become, why not, my first true friend in this giant city.
As the footsteps in the hallway faded away, I let out a long sigh from my lips and leaned over to my suitcase, pulling the zipper. I began taking out my clothes, books, and small keepsakes brought from home, placing them one by one on the empty shelves. Ji-soo was bound to show up sooner or later, but until then, this room was beginning, bit by bit, to smell like my new life. I looked out the window at the lights of Seoul starting to turn on in the twilight and smiled. The first frame of my movie had just begun to roll.
