Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Between battling too many demons that knew exactly how to fight back and constantly burning myself out trying to act like a “normal” person, I couldn’t keep going as I was. Never in a million years did I think a mental breakdown would result in me running to the other side of the world.
Safe to say, it was a bit of a shock to my family and friends when this chaotic, vulnerable 34-year-old woman who thrived on trying and failing to create order in her head and had a questionable need for co-dependency, when I announced a month long solo trip to South Korea. The reactions were mixed. Arguments flared, and most doubted I could cope. Mum stayed detached: “Let her. She’s an adult.” Dad exploded, his anger bordering on collapse. One sister shrugged, the other panicked I’d disappear. Ironically, my boss, Gina, was the calmest, letting me work remotely and still paying me.
Once my decision was made, I found a snug little Airbnb run by Kim Eun-ju, a warm-hearted woman with whom I quickly struck up a friendship. She had spent decades in New Jersey after marrying the love of her life, only to return to Seoul after he passed away. Now she ran her family’s café near Olympic Park, with three small apartments above it that she rented to travellers. Her children lived abroad, and she missed them terribly — maybe that’s why she was so kind to me, filling the space left by their absence.
The flight was almost suspiciously easy — a direct shot from Heathrow to Incheon and, to my amazement, the best twelve hours of sleep I’d had since exiting the womb.
I had spent countless hours obsessing over TikToks about transport passes and arrival logistics. But Eun-ju promised to help me settle in and even arranged for one of her café employees to collect me from Seoul Station, sparing me the ordeal of navigating taxi’s.
The drive through Seoul was a kaleidoscope of lights, sounds, and motion, dizzying yet strangely familiar. I shrugged off my cardigan, rolled the window down, and let the humid night air cling to my skin. All I could think about was a shower and a bed.
Eventually, we left the main roads and slipped into a maze of narrow backstreets. The car eased to a stop outside a softly glowing café, its sign in Hangul unreadable to me. The street was alive, lined with tall buildings crammed with convenience stores, salons, and coffee shops, most still open, even though it was nearly midnight.
It wasn’t loud, not like home. There was a steady hum in the air, but no shouting, no drunk voices echoing through the night, no chaos spilling into the streets. This noise was softer, as though the city was alive but not unruly. It unsettled me for a moment. Back home, silence felt suspicious; here, it felt safe.
The man who’d collected me stepped around to the boot, lifting out my suitcase with ease. I offered him a small smile and thanked him.
He was attractive, in that typical k-drama way, dark hair that fell across his forehead effortlessly, dark eyes that looked kind.
“You’re welcome,” he said, bowing back with a gentle smile. “Ajumma will be here in a moment.”
I must have hesitated, because he added, “Ajumma, that’s what we call Kim Eun-ju. She treats us all like her children. She’ll probably insist you do the same.”
He chuckled, leaning casually against the car. “I’m Park Ye-jun. I studied in London for a few years so it’s nice to speak English again. My friends there used to call me Jun, easier to remember. You can too.”
“Thanks, Jun. I’m Beth.” I extended my hand, and he shook it gently, just as a soft, lilting voice carried through the night.
“Ah, sweet girl, you’re here.”
I turned, and there she was: Kim Eun-ju. She had the kind of presence that filled a space without demanding it, eyes that twinkled like she already knew every secret you carried. “I hope Jun-ah has been polite,” she teased, and Jun immediately straightened, bowing.
“Kim Eun-ju, Jun has been wonderful,” I said quickly, wanting her to know I was in good hands.
She waved off my words with a laugh. “Call me Ajumma. Or Eun-ju, if that feels easier for now.”
Behind me, Jun let out a muffled snort, and when I glanced back, he was hiding a grin behind his hand. His eyes said it all: Told you so.
“Anyway,” Eun-ju said, her voice shifting into the warm authority of someone used to caring for others, “let’s get you inside and settled. You must be exhausted. I’ve got ramyeon on the stove, chicken or beef?”
I opened my mouth, but she was already giving orders. “Jun-ah, take Beth’s bags upstairs. Just leave them by the door.” She waved toward a side entrance, then looped her arm through mine and steered me gently toward the café door.
“Yes, Ajumma. See you soon, Beth, it was nice to meet you,” Jun said, bowing again before disappearing with my suitcase.
Her arm linked with mine felt strange at first, too close, too intimate. I wasn’t used to being guided anywhere, not without resisting. But with her, it felt… safe. Like maybe I didn’t have to hold everything up by myself anymore. It was such a small gesture, yet in that moment, I realised how starved I’d been for simple kindness.
Inside, the café was softly lit yet still alive with quiet energy. I glanced at my phone, 11 p.m. I should have been wrecked after the long journey, but instead I was wired, the first flickers of jet lag already working their way through me.
Eun-ju guided me to a square, horseshoe-shaped booth tucked into the back corner. “This will be your booth while you’re here,” she said with a smile. It faced the door, safe but secluded, as if she instinctively knew the kind of space I needed. The café itself was homey in a way that felt both foreign and oddly familiar. Patrons murmured softly to one another in Korean, sipping coffee, slurping noodles. Their voices, their laughter, their easy rhythms, it all wrapped around me like a blanket I hadn’t realised I’d been missing.
Soon a steaming bowl of ramyeon appeared in front of me: noodles tangled in a clear broth, scattered with vegetables, and topped with three slices of tender chicken.
“I had some chicken ready,” Eun-ju said, sliding the bowl toward me. “I wasn’t sure how you felt about eggs, so I left them off. And I don’t know your spice tolerance, so I made it child-safe.” Her eyes sparkled with humour, and I found myself smiling for what felt like the first time in days.
“Thank you, this smells amazing. I’m not good with spice,” I admitted, cautiously lifting noodles to my lips. The broth was gentle, savoury, comforting — no fiery burn, just warmth that spread through me like relief, “but this is perfect.”
It had been a long time since food tasted like kindness.
When the bowl was empty, I checked in with my family. A few photos and the obligatory “I’m alive” messages. I scrolled for a while, watching the café’s steady rhythm as people drifted in and out, ordering late-night coffees, chatting easily, settling into the quiet life of the city after dark. Seoul seemed to truly wake at night.
Eventually, the day caught up with me. The weight of travel, of months of strain, of years of carrying too much, it all pressed down at once. Eun-ju noticed me fighting to keep my eyes open and gently waved me upstairs.
The apartment blurred around me as I stumbled inside. I barely registered anything beyond the solid lock on the door and the unmistakable sense of safety. Unpacking could wait. I pulled out my pyjamas, splashed some water on my face, and collapsed into bed.
For the first time in a long while, sleep came easily.