Off the Syllabus: He doesn't know my name

The taxi had been waiting outside for almost ten minutes. Its headlights cut through the pale darkness of dawn, casting long shadows across the gate of the house I had spent twenty-four years trying to call home. The driver hadn’t honked. He probably sensed that this wasn’t the kind of departure that needed rushing. I stood at the doorway with my suitcase beside me, my fingers gripping the handle so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. My passport was still clutched in my other hand. I must have checked it at least twenty times in the last hour. The visa stamp was still there. The boarding ticket was still real. And yet, a part of me kept expecting someone to snatch it away, to tell me this had all been a mistake: That girls like me didn’t get to leave. That girls like me didn’t get freedom.

I looked back one last time. The house was silent. Too silent. Usually, silence in this house never meant peace. It meant tension—the kind that settled into your bones and made breathing feel like asking permission, the kind that made every footstep feel too loud, every movement too noticeable, every mistake punishable. I knew that silence too well; it raised me. I could still hear the echoes of last night’s argument. My mother’s voice had been sharp enough to cut through skin.

“You’re being selfish, Natasha.”

Selfish. That word had followed me my entire life. It was what they called me every time I chose myself: every time I refused to hand over my savings, every time I dared to have dreams bigger than the walls of this house. I had spent years trying to be a good daughter—the obedient one, the understanding one, the one who stayed quiet while my sister was given everything she asked for, the one who worked part-time after classes to pay my tuition fees, the one who sent money home even when it meant skipping meals for myself, the one who smiled through exhaustion, the one who sacrificed. And still, somehow, I was never enough. I was useful, but never enough. My mother loved my sister loudly. She loved me conditionally: through expectations, through control, through guilt. Sometimes I wondered if she ever really saw me as her daughter, or if I had always just been another responsibility she resented carrying.

The memory of her hand striking my cheek the night I told her about Seoul still burned inside me. It wasn’t the pain that stayed, but the look in her eyes—not concerned, not sadness, but anger. As if my leaving was betrayal, as if choosing my future was a crime

“You think the world is waiting for you?” she shouted.

“You’ll come crawling back.”

Maybe she believed that. Maybe part of me feared she might be right. But fear had controlled enough of my life already. Not this time. Not anymore.

I took a slow breath and looked down at my passport again. South Korea. Even the words felt unreal. I was going there as an intern—a completely new country, a new language, a new culture, a new beginning. For the first time in my life, my future felt like something I could actually touch. I should have felt terrified, and I was. But beneath the fear was something stronger: Hope. Raw, trembling, stubborn hope, the kind that refuses to die no matter how many times life tries to crush it.

That hope had kept me alive for years, along with my writing. No one here knew about that part of me, not really. For five years, I had written under a pen name, stories filled with everything I could never say out loud: pain, longing, dreams, freedom. Thousands of strangers had read my words. Some had laughed, some had cried, and some had written messages telling me my stories made them feel less alone. And every single time, I smiled at my screen in silence, because while my stories reached the world, I remained hidden. Only my closest friend knew the truth. Sometimes, I wondered what it would feel like to step into the light, to tell people who I really was. But I wasn’t ready for that yet. Some truths need time.

The taxi engine hummed again, pulling me back to the present. I glanced at the house one final time. No one came out. No one stopped me. No one said goodbye. A strange ache settled in my chest. I had spent years imagining this moment; I thought leaving would feel victorious, liberating, triumphant. Instead, it felt quiet, heavy, like tearing away a piece of yourself even when that piece had only ever caused pain. I bent down, grabbed my suitcase, and stepped outside. The cold morning air hit my face instantly. For a second, I just stood there at the gate. Then I closed it behind me. The click of the latch echoed in the silence, and somehow, that tiny sound felt louder than every scream that house had ever held. I got into the taxi and whispered,

“To the airport.”

The driver nodded and pulled away. As the house disappeared from view, tears blurred my vision. I wiped them away quickly—not because I was ashamed of crying, but because I refused to let this moment become another memory of pain. This wasn’t an ending; this was a beginning. The airport was crowded, bright, and alive in a way that made my chest tighten. The sharp scent of coffee drifted through the terminal. Announcements echoed overhead. Suitcases rolled across polished floors. Families hugged goodbye. Couples stood hand in hand. The children laughed. And there I was: Alone. For a moment, loneliness hit me so suddenly that I almost turned back. But then my fingers brushed against the notebook tucked inside my bag—my safe place, my constant. I smiled faintly. No. I hadn’t come this far to run.

Hours later, seated by the airplane window, I watched as the city lights grew smaller beneath me. The moment the plane lifted off the ground, something inside me shifted. It was subtle, almost fragile, but it was there. For the first time in years, I felt light. As dawn broke somewhere above the clouds, the sky exploded into shades of crimson and gold. It was breathtaking, the kind of beauty that makes your chest ache. I pulled out my notebook and began to write, because maybe that was who I had always been: a girl trying to survive by turning pain into stories. Somewhere between writing and watching the sunrise, I fell asleep.

I woke to the gentle voice of the air hostess.

“Ma’am, please fasten your seatbelt. We’ll be landing shortly.”

I blinked and looked out the window. And there it was: Seoul. A city glowing beneath the morning light. Unfamiliar. Terrifying. Beautiful. A nervous laugh escaped my lips.

“Well, Natasha,” I whispered to myself, “welcome to your new life.”

I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side of those airport doors. But for the first time, that uncertainty felt exciting. And as the plane descended through the clouds, I made myself a promise: No matter what happened next... I would never let anyone cage my dreams again.

The moment I stepped out of the airport, the cold Seoul air hit my face. And wow. Okay. Nobody warned me that air could have personality. It was sharp, crisp, and carried this weirdly fresh scent of roasted coffee, winter wind, and what I could only describe as new beginnings with a side of expensive skincare. For a second, I just stood there near the entrance, my suitcase beside me, staring at everything like a confused tourist who had accidentally walked into the set of a K-drama. This was real. I was actually here. In Seoul. In South Korea. A whole new country. A whole new life. A whole new set of opportunities to embarrass myself internationally. Amazing.

The airport buzzed with life around me. People moved quickly, their footsteps echoing across the pavement as they dragged sleek suitcases behind them. Some spoke rapidly in Korean. Others laughed into their phones. Cars lined up near the pickup area while digital signboards flickered overhead. Everything felt so fast. So polished. So different. And there I was, clutching my suitcase handle like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. Okay, Natasha. Don’t panic. You’ve survived engineering exams, family drama, and writing emotional scenes at 3 a.m. while half-asleep. You can survive an airport. Probably.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A message.

Diana: Outside Gate 4. Beige coat. Please don’t tell me you got kidnapped already. I promised your friend I’d return you alive.

A laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. That tiny text somehow eased the nervous storm spinning inside my chest. I looked around carefully until I spotted her. She was standing near a black car, waving both her arms dramatically like she was directing air traffic. Petite. Bright-eyed. Messy bun. Beige coat. And very clearly incapable of behaving normally in public. Perfect.

I walked toward her, dragging my suitcase behind me. The moment I got close enough, she broke into a huge grin.

“Natasha?”

I nodded. Before I could even properly respond, she pulled me into a quick hug.

“Welcome to Seoul,” she said warmly.

Something about those three simple words made my chest tighten. Not painfully. Just... strangely. I wasn’t used to being welcomed. Not like this. Not without conditions attached.

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound weirdly emotional after one hug.

She pulled back and gave me a suspicious look.

“You look exactly like someone who hasn’t slept in twelve years.”

I blinked.

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“Still rude.”

She laughed. And just like that, some of the tension inside me melted away. Maybe this wouldn’t be so terrifying after all.

The drive to my apartment was surreal. I sat by the window, trying to absorb everything. Seoul looked exactly like those late-night aesthetic edits people obsessively repost online. Tall glass buildings reflected the pale morning sunlight. Bright signboards glowed even though the sky had already turned soft blue. People hurried across sidewalks carrying coffee cups and looking suspiciously put together for this hour. Meanwhile, I was sitting there with travel hair and exactly three functioning brain cells. Attractive. Very main-character.

Diana kept pointing things out as we drove.

“That’s a 24-hour convenience store. You’ll practically live there.”

“That station over there will become your second home.”

“And if you ever get lost, call me before trying to solve it yourself and accidentally ending up in North Korea.”

I stared at her

“That escalated quickly.”

“You’ll get used to me.”

Honestly? I believed her.

Somewhere between her chaotic commentary and the warmth inside the car, exhaustion won. My eyes drifted shut. The next thing I heard was her voice.

“Natasha. Wake up. We’re here.”

I blinked awake and looked outside. And then froze. The apartment building stood quietly at the corner of a clean street lined with bare winter trees. It wasn’t one of those giant glamorous towers from rich-people K-dramas. It was smaller. Simple. Elegant. Real. And somehow, I loved it instantly.

The moment Diana unlocked the door and pushed it open, I stepped inside and completely forgot how to breathe. It was beautiful. Soft sunlight spilled across polished wooden floors. A small grey couch sat near the large window. The compact kitchen looked neat and spotless. A tiny dining table rested near the wall, and a few unopened boxes sat stacked neatly in one corner. It wasn’t perfect. And maybe that was exactly why it felt real.

“This is... mine?” I asked quietly.

Diana smiled.

“yes.”

I slowly turned in a circle, taking everything in. For the first time in what felt like forever, I was standing in a place that didn’t carry painful memories. No shouting. No tension. No walking carefully to avoid saying the wrong thing. Just silence. Peaceful silence.

“I think I’m already emotionally attached to this apartment,” I admitted.

Diana laughed.

“Please don’t marry the furniture on your first day.”

“No promises.”

That earned another laugh.

For the next hour, she gave me enough information to mentally crash my entire system: Bus cards, nearest subway station, emergency numbers, Wi-Fi password, heating controls, best places to buy groceries, which convenience stores stayed open all night. At some point, my expression must have completely blanked out because she suddenly stopped talking.

“Oh no,” she said dramatically.

“What?”

“You’ve reached information overload. Your soul has temporarily exited your body.”

“Honestly, fair.”

She handed me a small notebook.

“I wrote everything down. Read it later when your brain decides to function again.”

I smiled. That was unexpectedly thoughtful.

Before leaving, she paused near the door.

“I’m flying to America tomorrow for work, but if you need anything, call me. Seriously.”

Her expression softened.

“You’re not alone here, okay?”

For a second, I couldn’t respond. Those words hit deeper than they should have. So I simply nodded.

“Thank you.”

And I meant it.

After she left, silence settled over the apartment. But unlike the silence back home, this one felt gentle. Safe. I walked toward the huge window and looked down at the streets below. Cars moved steadily. People hurried along sidewalks. Somewhere nearby, faint music drifted through the air. The city was alive. And for the first time in years, I felt like maybe... I could be too.

A slow smile spread across my face. I had actually done it. I had left. No more constant criticism. No more suffocating expectations. No more shrinking myself just to keep the peace. This was my life now. Mine. I let out a shaky breath and dropped onto the couch. Every muscle in my body ached with exhaustion. My mind was overwhelmed. But my heart felt strangely light.

I had just closed my eyes when the sharp sound of the doorbell echoed through the apartment. My entire body stiffened. I sat up immediately. Wait. What? Diana had already left. I wasn’t expecting anyone. The bell rang again. Longer this time. Okay. Absolutely not. This was either the beginning of a beautiful friendship... or the opening scene of a true crime documentary. Slowly, I stood and walked toward the door. My pulse hammered against my ribs. I wrapped my fingers around the handle. Took a deep breath. And pulled it open. The person standing there grinned brightly.

“Surprise!”