Chapter 78: The End Stall: A College Sanctuary

Normally, as your age increases, it brings both physical and mental changes.

First, the simplest change is in color.

Black hair turns white, and once-bright skin grows dull.

The preference for flashy clothes—red, blue, yellow, even neon—shifts toward achromatic colors like black, gray, and white.

That’s how adults acquire their own kind of camouflage, one that doesn’t stand out in the eyes of others.

Next comes a change in temperature.

Sure, switching from iced Americano to hot Americano even if it’s freezing out is one sign of this change.

But the change I’m talking about is the temperature of human relationships.

Especially the way the temperature changes in relationships between men and women.

As students, you might date someone just because you like their face, and when you break up, it’s all “I like you so much I have to leave, sob sob,” with that kind of tragic parting.

Even in your twenties, it doesn’t change much.

You listen to a four-member vocal group belting out a high-pitched ballad, crying as if you’re the heartbroken lover in the lyrics, wailing, “It’s like I’ve been shot in the heart.”

The only real difference between teenage and twenty-something breakups is that you add a bottle of alcohol.

After going through a few breakups, even those soggy parting scenes turn dry and crumbly, and eventually, things calm down to something like, “Alright, well, yeah. Hey. Good job, take care. Get home safe.”

Of course, if you take it one step deeper and dirtier, there are those spicy breakups where lines like, “You call yourself human after this?” slip out before you know it.

If I’m suddenly rambling about all this—

It’s not because I’m having some kind of “thing” with Sakura, what kids these days call a “somewhat” (Actually, it is).

Nor am I rationalizing almost being used by Sakura as her “mature breakup” in what could barely be called a relationship (It is).

Anyway.

When you become an adult—or rather, get old—your colors and temperature change like this.

I sat in my office in “High-End Officetel Hapjeong Mecenatpolis,” wearing a black turtleneck and a dark gray cardigan, sipping a hot Americano.

My hands have been getting colder lately, so holding a warm coffee cup from time to time helps me focus.

After returning from Japan, I’ve settled back into my routine, throwing myself into writing the script for episode 11 of .

Knock knock—

“Come in… please.”

“Author.”

Just as I heard a cautious knock on the door to my personal office, Seo Sun-ae burst in.

I could tell from the way she cocked her head and stared at me that I’d forgotten something again, but I feigned ignorance and asked,

“What’s up?”

“Why aren’t you checking your email?”

“Oh, you sent an email. Are you talking about this one?”

I’d already opened my inbox and found the “Author Lee Junghyuk Guest Request Sheet,” neatly organized in an Excel table for easy viewing.

The list was packed with requests, from interviews by the Korean Writers’ Association to TV variety show appearances and even a lecture at my alma mater.

If I accepted every one of those requests, I’d probably spend almost a month running around to outside events without writing a single word.

“That’s why I’m planning to decline any outside schedules not related to our drama shoot.”

“I understand, but these days, not just the content but the writer’s image is very important. Some of these would be great opportunities to refresh your public image.”

“What’s wrong with my image that I need to refresh it?”

“You read the articles, didn’t you?”

I know exactly what Seo Sun-ae is hinting at.

Not long ago, an article full of speculation about Sakura and me came out in Japan.

[Korean Drama Writer Lee Junghyuk Enjoys a Secret Meeting with Ishihara Sakura!]

[What’s the Real Reason a Korean Star Writer Came to Japan to Film a Drama?!]

Thanks to this, my image keywords—already “divorced man” and “traitor”—were now joined by “actress scandal.”

If you put all those keywords together, you get the incredible phrase, “A divorced man who acts pro-Japanese after his divorce and is making a pass at a Japanese actress.”

Seo Sun-ae, proving herself the shining intellect of GodMedia, didn’t bother to voice any harsh words; instead, she delivered a look that clearly said, “You seriously don’t get it?”

“Shouldn’t a writer just focus on writing well?”

“I’m not asking you to do all these events. Just one—or no, three. How about three?”

“I’ll… consider it negatively.”

Bzzz— bzzz—

Just then, I got a call from Hong Juhee.

Using the excuse that I needed to take an important call from my former boss and now the producer of my drama, I managed to usher Seo Sun-ae out of my office.

Only after she completely disappeared, glaring at me as she backed out the door, did I answer the phone.

“Hello.”

—Writer, is this a good time? I hope I’m not bothering you while you’re busy.

“Perfect timing. What’s up?”

—So, I just happened to find out by chance. Turns out, we’re family in more ways than one~

“If you mean , I suppose that’s true. Is there something else?”

—Of course~ Can you believe it, writer? We’re al-um-ni~ University alumni!

“Hmm, I see.”

I should have sensed something was off and hung up right then.

—So, writer. Would you consider giving a lecture at our alma mater?

“I’m busy these days, so I don’t think I can fit in a lecture.”

—Ah. I see. If you’re busy, there’s nothing I can do. You must be very busy these days, right?

“Yes. I hope you’re staying healthy despite your schedule, Director Hong.”

—Well, I’m not sure about my health. Actually, someone I relied on a lot recently left for another job.

“Oh…”

Just then, I noticed the office door, which I thought was completely shut, was slightly ajar.

Through that narrow crack, Seo Sun-ae’s sharp eyes were staring daggers at me, and Hong Juhee’s voice continued.

—What can I do? She was a wonderful, lovely employee, but since she was going to work as the CEO for our beloved writer’s company, I had to let her go.

“I—I’m very grateful for that.”

—Now that Sun-ae’s gone, everything feels twice—no, ten times—harder. Every day is so tough, but I know you’re busy, too. It must be hard to accept any of my requests.

In the end, faced with the “special violence” of the Sun and the Wind, I became like the naked traveler, stripped bare and defenseless.

“I—I’ll do it. The lecture.”

So I ended up giving a lecture at my alma mater, Seoul Arts and Culture University.

***

Seoul Arts and Culture University.

The undergraduate program, abbreviated as Seoye-mun, is divided into the Performing Arts Creation Department—which links acting, dance, music, and playwriting—and the Media Creation Department, which links film, broadcasting, design, and creative writing.

Among these, Hong Juhee majored in Visual Design, and I graduated from the Creative Writing Department, so when Hong Juhee calls us “family,” she technically means we both attended the Media Creation Department.

Back when I was a student, there was no such thing as a broad, all-encompassing “Media Creation Department”—it was just the Creative Writing major.

But details like that don’t seem to matter to the overexcited Hong Juhee, who’s thrilled to see the campus after so long.

“Mm, it’s been so long. Doesn’t it make you feel excited, thinking of the old days?”

“Yes.”

“The earth must be sick. It’s November, but it feels so warm.”

“Yes.”

The campus of Seoye-mun, with its long history and tradition, is quite large and scenic.

Huge ginkgo and plane trees are planted all around, soaking you in literary sentiment just by looking at them.

Wherever the leaves had piled up and rustled, there were always benches and tables, so students could enjoy discussing art and blossoming in their twenties anywhere on campus.

Hong Juhee watched a group of two boys and two girls, laughing and talking loudly, with a pleased smile.

“I used to sit right there and laugh and talk like that. Writer, you’ve done that too, right?”

“No.”

“Come on, I bet you were pretty popular as a student, right? By the way, do any of your college friends act or write?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, I guess not everyone from an arts school becomes an actor or writer.”

That’s not true.

Most do become actors or writers. I just don’t have friends.

“Did you have a favorite place on campus?”

“Not really.”

“Or at least a spot where you spent most of your time? Where did you usually hang out?”

“The end stall of the men’s restroom on the third floor of my department building.”

“Hmm?”

Hong Juhee looked like she couldn’t even begin to process what I’d just said, but I continued calmly.

Back in college, or rather, throughout my college years, I was always alone.

Unlike Hong Juhee, who was born sociable and cheerful and served on the student council, I have virtually no fond memories of university life.

In fact, I’ve always felt a strong aversion to “school” as a place.

It’s embarrassing to repeat it so often, but I lost my parents in an accident in my first year of high school.

As an orphan, to afford Seoye-mun—which cost over three million won per semester—I had to rely on a national scholarship and work part-time jobs.

Liberal arts classes could be managed by memorization, but at an arts university, grades depend heavily on practicals. Just studying a lot doesn’t guarantee you a merit scholarship.

My schedule was packed with classes, and as soon as they ended, I’d go to a nearby barbecue restaurant to wash grills and do dishes.

If I’d worked in the main hall, people might have seen my face, but I chose the hard labor in the kitchen for the higher hourly pay, so I never ran into any classmates while working.

I didn’t drink, I had no free periods, and I never skipped class because I needed the minimum GPA for my scholarship, so it wasn’t that the other students were unfriendly—I just never gave them a chance to get to know me.

But, as Hong Juhee said earlier, this campus is full of young, talented people clustering together, occupying every bench and table.

These days, there are spaces in the city for people who want to eat alone, but back in 2007 to 2010, eating alone in public was almost performance art.

That’s why I used the end stall of the men’s restroom on the third floor.

It was spacious, comfortable, and—most importantly—the window was flush with the wall, making it easy to ventilate.

Because I often ate kimbap there, I always asked, “Please leave out the pickled radish.”

After hearing my story, Hong Juhee’s eyes grew cloudy as she asked, “Why?”

I smiled and answered gently,

“Because pickled radish is crunchy.”

“?”

“Think about it—if you hear a crunching sound in a bathroom, isn’t that really out of place?”

“Ah… ah…”

“That’s why I didn’t want to come back to my alma mater for a lecture. Ha ha. But what can you do? You can’t just do what you want in life.”

“S-sorry.”

Who am I to give a lecture at my alma mater, when I used to chew kimbap with the pickled radish left out, alone in the bathroom stall?

Just as that conversation—where I’d exposed a piece of my dark inner self—came to an end,

We reached the Creative Writing Department’s building.

In front of the building, the department’s teaching assistant was waiting for us.

“Welcome, Writer Lee Junghyuk. And Director Hong Juhee. Thank you for coming such a long way.”

We followed the TA, who greeted us as cheerfully as an amusement park part-timer, down to the basement.

The basement of the Creative Writing building housed a large lecture hall, just like a movie theater, with room for around 200 people.

When the door opened, I saw the hall packed with students from Seoye-mun.