“There’s a lot to prep, so you have to arrive at least an hour early. If there’s no class in the prior time slot, students can enter starting twenty minutes before. Open the classroom then.”
Work began the day after he signed the contract. They handed over duties in preparation for the afternoon’s basic lecture for the comprehensive class. A man who said he’d been Seung-jo’s TA since last year explained things to Giyun with gusto. He looked mid-twenties and said his name was Joo Young-hyeon.
“Once the room’s in order, set up the mic and video gear, and write the pre-class announcements on the board.”
“Okay.”
“We wipe the board every break, but if you wipe too fast some folks complain. ‘I didn’t finish copying yet!’—that sort of thing. So give it a decent interval.”
“Understood.”
The explanations went on and on. While answering dutifully, Giyun wrote down everything Young-hyeon said.
“Today we’ve got a lecture that’ll be filmed for the online course, so the camera director’s coming. On days we’re not filming, we control the screen with this. The board is insanely big and long, so just track the teacher’s movement and slide the buttons like this, like this—smoothly. Got it?”
“Do the cameras run even when it’s not a filming day?”
Though there was no one else to ask, Giyun politely raised a hand. Young-hyeon squinted at him like, what kind of amateur question is that.
“Even if it’s not for online, we still need the feed. How many monitors do you think are in the room?”
“There are… monitors in the classroom?”
“You’ve never taken a live class? Not once?”
“…”
“That’s why you don’t know.”
Had he said something weird? His timidly raised hand sank back down. With an I get it look, Young-hyeon clarified crisply.
“Just the in-person students for this class are close to a thousand. Except for the front rows, everyone watches the monitors overhead. Even from the middle you can’t really make out the board writing, let alone the teacher’s face.”
“A thousand?”
The color drained from Giyun’s face. That many people all together for one class? Could they even fit in one space? Was this a concert hall? Do they… stand and listen?
Following Young-hyeon out of the TA room, he looked over the infamous classroom. In a vast space that couldn’t be taken in at a glance, desks and chairs stretched endlessly, like copy-paste to infinity. The monitors hanging in the air were beyond counting. From the very back, Seung-jo would be a dot.
Listening only to online lectures, he’d had no idea it was like this. On screen you only ever saw the board and the lecturer’s upper body; there was no way to tell if there were ten live students or a thousand. True, some lectures did feel unusually “audio-packed”…
That this cavern could fill with people. That he taught in a place like this every time. Just imagining standing on a dais before a thousand had him trembling. If the live turnout was like this, he couldn’t even guess how many were watching online.
“But there aren’t any actual thousand-seat rooms. This is the biggest—max capacity five hundred—so people who come late sit in adjoining rooms and watch only the monitors. We call that the ‘video section.’”
“Then isn’t that basically the same as the online course…?”
“They still want to come in person, I guess. Anyway, that’s why camera work matters. Most of his classes run like this.”
“…Understood.”
“Seat saving switched to online reservations a little while back, but before that it was first-come lineups no matter what. Ever heard of ‘notebook lines’? From here to the far end of that hall, notebooks numbered by order would be laid out in a row. When class starts in the morning, people are waiting before the place opens. Wild, right? Nowadays everyone takes online courses.
A lecturer who pulls this many to live class is one of a handful in the entire industry.”
He spoke as proudly as if he himself were a No. 1 star. He clearly took pride in being Seung-jo’s TA.
“Coming at least an hour early is because of that. Some classes hand out printed materials equal to the headcount—lugging and distributing those alone eats tons of time.”
He vented about the hard parts but didn’t forget the perks.
“In return, our teacher gives solid financial therapy. Compared to other TAs, we get paid well. People envy us.”
“I see… Um, TA—please speak comfortably to me.”
“Oh? Should I? Then call me hyung.”
Giyun nodded. Since they’d be seeing each other constantly, it seemed wise to get along with Young-hyeon.
In the loosened mood, Young-hyeon turned a bit personal.
“TA recruitment’s always cutthroat. Usually they pick from folks who’ve taken live classes for years, so I was surprised they said you weren’t one of them. You know the teacher personally or something?”
“…Nothing like that. I guess I was just lucky.”
Even with the most generous spin, you couldn’t call that a personal connection. Freedom to delude yourself only went so far…
“Or maybe you got picked for your face?”
“No way…”
At the joke, he could think of no good reply and gave an awkward smile.
“Anyway, if you’re going to work and study, you won’t find better. And the teacher runs like clockwork—never ends late rambling, and hardly ever cancels or schedules make-ups, so it’s easy on TAs too. Just work the fixed schedule.”
As promised, Seung-jo arrived on the dot. The vast classroom that could double as a sports field without the desks was suddenly packed. The side rooms with monitors overflowed, too. And the lecture streamed online, to boot.
“We’ll start after greetings. Hello.”
Standing on the dais before a wall of people that was overwhelming just to behold, Seung-jo began as calmly as ever. Part of Giyun wanted to ask if he popped a cheongsimhwan1 before class, but the distance—physical and psychological—was too great.
Multiple ceiling units of central AC roared. Unlike outside, inside was objectively cool—chilly, even. Yet maybe because he was nervous for Seung-jo, sweat pooled in his palms.
“If someone talks during class or disrupts the atmosphere, give them a quiet warning. It bothers other students.”
“Ah, okay.”
At the whisper from the adjacent seat, Giyun carefully scanned the room. No one was rowdy enough to merit warning yet, and, more than anything, Seung-jo gave no one a chance to look away from him.
He explained dull content so cleanly it drew murmurs of appreciation, and he structured hard passages into logical, easy-to-grasp parts. Meanwhile, his board work looked like Times New Roman printed straight onto the surface—matching his personality.
The lecture felt like a meticulously composed work of art. Each step across the room, each gesture, each shift in intonation naturally drew every eye. A deep, low voice matched his polished diction and added pull. Pronunciation and pace were perfect; listening felt like being drawn somewhere.
He even spoke without the habitual fillers most people have. When you carry the audio alone for long stretches, Koreans tend to pepper in things like “ani,” “geunde,” “ja,” “ildan,” “yakkan,” but he never tossed out a word carelessly. You could almost call the speech itself fastidious.
Whether born eloquent or a relentless grinder, Giyun couldn’t tell, but one thing was certain: his lecture flowed as smoothly and perfectly as if he’d practiced the very same content ten thousand times. Behind that flawless delivery were surely a highly trained manner of speaking, refined gestures, and brutal rehearsal.
Another reason the class felt like a tight script or a work of art might be how severely he limited small talk. He never veered off; he never spilled pointless personal stories.
Other lecturers often worked in chatter to reset the mood or refocus attention. Thanks to that, Giyun could rattle off all sorts of trivia he hadn’t wanted to know: how his Korean teacher almost fell to his death off a cliff in Madagascar ten years ago; how the Korean-history teacher, living alone, kept five rescue cats named Hunryeondogam, Eoyeongcheong, Chongyungcheong, Sueocheong, and Geumwiyoung.
How the public-administration teacher ate so poorly in college he developed malnutrition yet “nooom effort2”ed his way to passing the civil-service exam while still enrolled, so we should all get our heads on straight and study hard. He’d heard them so many times.
Seung-jo had none of that—almost coldly so. Maybe the syllabus was just packed? No, not really. Maybe he just hated talking about himself. If he sang in this voice, he’d probably enchant people. And if he couldn’t sing… well…
“Let’s take a short break.”
The moment he finished, break began. Young-hyeon tapped Giyun’s shoulder. Snapped out of his trance (he’d been practically devouring the man with his eyes) Giyun came back to himself.
“Have you greeted the teacher?”
“No, not yet.”
“Do it now. He’s busy. You might not get a chance later.”
Before he could answer, Young-hyeon was already parting the crowd. The closer they pushed toward the lectern, the harder it was to keep calm. He was getting nearer and nearer to Seung-jo.
What do I do. I’m not ready… Maybe I’m the one who needs the cheongsimhwan.
“Teacher. This is Eun Giyun, the new TA.”
Having reached him at last, Young-hyeon introduced him with a polite bow. Like a slave dragged before a grandee, hands clasped, head ducked, Giyun bowed deeply. Facing him sober felt far more nerve-racking than that night.
“H-hello.”
With his gaze down, he saw a flawlessly polished toe cap. He’d already noted the man’s solid build. His feet were big, too. 290? 295?
Standing awkwardly, staring at the floor, he failed to dodge a passerby and bumped shoulders. He’d forgotten the place was more crowded than the subway at rush hour.
He cradled his shoulder and slowly lifted his head. His gaze passed long legs, hovered at the chest of a shirt stretched over a solid torso, and paused near the collarbone. He’d just swept the man’s entire figure, against his will. He didn’t want to, but nerves kept spiking. The higher his eyes went, the more courage it took.
At last, when he dared look up, his eyes met a blank face. The other man looked unmoved.
“Right. I look forward to working with you.”
His voice was as composed as when he ended class. With that brief reply neither cold nor kind, he ended the moment, almost anticlimactically.
Did he… not remember me?
As anxiety rose and he opened his mouth again..
“I…”
“Hello! I took your class this year and passed the national service exam. I took the train to come thank you in person!”
“Ah, congratulations. You must’ve come a long way?”
“Yes, I came up from Yeosu on the KTX. I really wanted to see you! This isn’t much, but I made…”
A fan meet, apparently.
Sadly, there was a lot of competition. Students lay in wait all over, angling for a moment. Seung-jo’s attention shifted that way.
“…”
Reluctantly yielding, he turned his back and quietly wiped the board.
Four hours of class flashed by. He left the room as composed as he’d entered, ending on the stroke of the hour with frightening precision.
After tidying the room, Giyun followed Young-hyeon back to the TA room to pack up.
“Nice work. A blur, right? We’ll continue the handover tomorrow. Clock out for today.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Yeah. I’ve got to deliver these to the teacher. See you tomorrow.”
Seeing him gather a stack of printouts to head out, Giyun quickly stopped him.
“Give them to me. I’ll take them.”
“Huh? It’s fine—”
“I’m fine too.”
“In that case, would you?”
Taking the documents, he nodded as if it were nothing. Here was another chance to face Seung-jo. He wanted to finish the greeting properly this time, instead of dithering.
“His office is on seven. If he’s not there, leave them at the front office for tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll head up first.”
“Thanks.”
Feeling a twinge of guilt at being thanked, he kept his response light and headed to the office. On seven he found the door with Gong Seung-jo on the nameplate and knocked.
A voice answered. He was in. Taking a small breath, he opened the door.
“Hello. I’m here to deliver these.”
“Leave them.”
Seated at his desk, he was scanning documents. With just a flick of his eyes, he confirmed the visitor and jerked his chin at a spot on the desk. Did he really not remember? Following instructions, he set the prints down. Then, instead of leaving, he spoke again.
“Teacher, my name is Eun Giyun.”
A faint question flickered over his face: Who asked?
“…I’m Eun Giyun…”
“What exactly am I supposed to do about that.”
Having stupidly repeated himself, he got an irritable reply. He wilted, suddenly out of words. He felt like one of those nightmare customers who toss a name and then bully staff with “How do you not know who I am?” Of course, the idea of him bullying anyone was absurd and bullying Gong Seung-jo doubly so…
“No… I’m sorry.”
The one common thread: unwelcome guest. Bowing his head, pushed to the limit, he heard a small sigh from the desk.
“You don’t have to say it that many times. I remember.”
“…Ah.”
“So you made it home in one piece.”
Startled, he looked up. He did remember him. He’d been quietly hurt thinking he was forgotten—but hearing it aloud was a surprise of its own. Just those few words puffed his chest.
“You didn’t acknowledge me, so…”
“Were you expecting a handshake? What a nice memory that would be.”
Okay, a handshake would’ve been weird. As he silently accepted that, Seung-jo regarded him with a flat look. Setting aside the papers he’d been prioritizing, he leaned back, signaling he’d spare a moment.
“How’s the work?”
“Eh? Oh. Thank you. Thanks to your reaching out—”
“It wasn’t me. Staff contacted you.”
He corrected him, as if to say, Let’s keep the phrasing straight.
“…I did tell them to hire you if you applied.”
Close enough, he thought, but kept quiet. Either way, he’d been picked—that was what mattered.
Watching the silent boy, he paused, as if choosing words.
“I’m sorry about your situation, Mr. Eun.”
“…”
“More examinees than you’d think are studying under hard circumstances. I don’t owe them anything, but I do feel sorry for them.”
In other words, he’d helped out of pity. Giyun pressed his lips together. He hadn’t committed a crime, yet his head lowered on its own. He felt freshly hot-faced about having bared his feelings to the bottom. Even if he’d half-guessed how the man had interpreted that night, hearing it from his mouth was different.
“If you intend to keep studying, pairing it with TA work isn’t a bad choice. Assuming you want to, of course.”
Even at that, he couldn’t lift his head. By a chance encounter the man had been saddled with him. No matter how well-off or soft-hearted, he wasn’t obliged to help.
His foolish actions had burdened him. Maybe, inside, he thought he’d been dragged into a hassle. The thought broke cold sweat.
“…I’m sorry.”
At the unprompted apology, one eyebrow rose.
“For dumping a pointless burden on you…”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A clean brow creased.
“It’s fascinating that you believe you’ve burdened me with something I never received. Do people often tell you you’re overly self-centered?”
“…”
“Or is your comprehension lacking? That would make it hard to assign you tasks.”
More than anything, hard to assign you tasks made his heart drop with a thud.
“I didn’t ‘single you out’ or ‘sponsor’ you. A TA slot happened to be open, we needed someone who could commute while studying—”
“…”
“I hired you because it fit a need. If it hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Don’t spin it into something strange.”
So rational it felt cold—he had no reply. For a man like him, this degree of kindness was trivial. If anything, acting like he should refuse help out of pride had probably annoyed him. Maybe he even found it impertinent.
So he answered plainly.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good that you understand.”
Even under a crush of negative thoughts, a tight balloon swelled inside him. Whatever else, this was an undeservedly good opportunity. He could call the man a benefactor.
“And about that night, too. You pulled me out of something truly dangerous. I was so rattled I didn’t even thank you properly… I’m sorry and I’m grateful.”
“Right. You can go now.”
Bowing ninety degrees, he got a look that barely acknowledged him.
“I really don’t know how to repay—”
“That’s enough.”
As he kept thanking him, the man cut him off. Irritation crept into voice and face.
“It’s not like this is a free handout, so don’t overdo it. What goodwill I have for you ends here.”
“Of course. There’s nothing more I want.”
“You don’t need to curry favor with me, either. I won’t fire you unless you don’t work or cause trouble.”
He disliked repeating himself and disliked hearing repeats. Further explanations or thanks were clearly a waste of time.
In a smaller voice, he muttered, “…I’ll work hard at life. So someday I can repay this favor…”
“Live as you like. Don’t give me reports.”
“It’s less a report and more just stating my resolve…”
“Save that for New Year’s sunrise. Say it to yourself.”
A long finger pointed due east. Having given a TA job, he’d fulfilled any moral duty to a poor student; his refusal of any further emotional exchange was resolute. Under that merciless response, the swell in Giyun’s chest began to shrivel.
“I’m a bit busy.”
“Yes… Sorry.”
How busy was he? Seeing the pile of documents, he steadied himself, embarrassed. He was about to hurry out when a crucial errand came to mind; with endless apology, he spoke once more.
“Um, I’m sorry, but this…”
He set a wad of bills on the desk. The corners of Seung-jo’s eyes twitched.
“And what is this.”
“The fare you lent me that night.”
He pressed a hand to his brow. Flustered, Giyun rushed to explain because the money didn’t add up.
“I’m sorry, I had to spend a bit in a hurry a few days ago, and there’s nowhere nearby to withdraw cash, so I’m short fifty thousand won. I’m really sorry. Can I give you the rest next lecture? Or deduct it from next month’s pay.”
“That’s enough. Stop apologizing and take it back.”
“Pardon? Why?”
“If I’d intended to collect it, I wouldn’t have given it. It’s an amount I can do without; I don’t even remember how much it was.”
“But…”
“But you can’t do without it, can you?”
“…”
“Let’s stop the pointless back-and-forth. That money is worth less to me than the time I’m wasting dealing with you right now.”
With nothing in his words to contradict, Giyun’s mouth hung open, unable to produce a sound.
“…”
And yet there are statements that, while not wrong, are hard to accept emotionally. Every word was so unfeeling that it was a talent to look this stingy while helping. Against his better judgment, he felt a pang of hurt.
“Clear it away. I’m not some moneylender. The fact that I’m doing this with a kid is embarrassing in itself.”
“Everything’s embarrassing to you, huh.”
“What did you just say.”
“N-nothing.”
He’d meant to mutter it inside, but it slipped out. Dropping even his habitual honorifics, Seung-jo straightened in his seat; at the same time, Giyun clamped his mouth shut.
With a well now expression, hand to his chin, he stared straight at him, the first time that gaze fully took him in. Giyun now stared at the tips of his own shoes, not the desk or the floor./
He wanted to vanish. He waited for the quick “be gone” decree, but the man stayed silent. Maybe it was just his mood, but the atmosphere felt heavier.
Keystrokes. A printer whirring. Ignoring the boy standing there, he began reading a fresh printout. A silent cue to leave. With a trembling hand, Giyun meekly reclaimed the money from the desk.
“…Thank you for the money you gave me. I’ll use it well. I’ll… get going.”
He bowed in resignation and turned. This isn’t how I meant it to go. The way the conversation diverged from his fantasy was lamentable. He’d pestered a man whose every second was precious. That was on him.
His deflated footsteps thudded in the quiet office. But before he reached the door, the man spoke.
“Hello. My name is Eun Giyun.”
Startled by the familiar line, he wheeled around. The document being read was his résumé; the words being recited in a flat tone were his recent self-introduction.
“I graduated high school the year before last, and since then—”
“Wait! P-please don’t read that here, please!”
- Cheongsimhwan is a traditional Korean herbal medicine for nervousness and anxiety, is popularly considered one way to recharge one’s strength ↩︎
- “nooom effort” is mimicking the Korean meme ‘노오오력’—a dragged-out “effooooort,” used sarcastically to push the message that “you just need to work harder. ↩︎
Leave a Reply