Fate in Seoul

The smell of coffee beans had always been my comfort. It clung to my hands after every shift at the small café in Delhi, where I worked evenings after school. My parents never asked me to they always told me to focus on my studies but I liked helping. Every extra rupee mattered, and besides, the café felt like home. And home… was my safe place. My father, with his round glasses slipping down his nose as he marked exam papers late into the night. My mother, who cooked my favorite food whenever I had a bad day. Their voices, their love, their endless belief in me it was the fuel that kept me going. I wasn’t the richest, or the most glamorous, but I had something far better. I had them. The letter came on an ordinary Tuesday. I was wiping down café tables when Papa rushed in, panting, holding an envelope as though it contained the universe. “Ananya! It came. It’s here!” I froze, cloth in hand. My heart hammered so loudly, I thought the customers might hear it. With trembling fingers, I tore the envelope open. Congratulations, Ananya Kapoor. You have been awarded a full scholarship to Seoul National University. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The words blurred, then cleared, then blurred again through my tears. I had done it. I was going to Korea. Mama arrived minutes later, hugging me so tight I thought I would break. “My daughter, my star,” she whispered, her own cheeks wet with tears. Papa pressed his forehead to mine. “We always knew you were meant for more.” That night, we sat under the dim yellow light of our home, eating a celebratory dinner of kheer. My parents’ eyes shone with pride, but also with something else fear. Fear of letting their only daughter go so far away. I swallowed my own fear. For them. For me. The airport smelled of jet fuel and tears. Mama clutched my hand until the boarding announcement forced her to let go. “Never forget who you are, Ananya,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I won’t,” I promised, hugging her one last time. Papa placed a hand on my shoulder. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t. “Make us proud, beta.” I nodded, wiping my tears quickly before walking away. The weight of my dreams pulled me forward, even as my heart tugged backward toward them. Seoul was… overwhelming. The air was colder, sharper, as if it wanted to remind me I was no longer home. Towering glass buildings glittered like diamonds, neon lights painted the night, and crowds moved with a rhythm I didn’t understand. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, clutching my single suitcase. Everything was new. The language. The faces. Even the way the sky looked. Classes at Seoul National University started in two days, but reality hit me quickly: my scholarship covered tuition and housing, but not the countless small expenses. Books. Food. Transport. Life here was expensive. So I did what I had always done I worked. The café was tucked between two clothing stores, its sign painted in cheerful pastel letters: Sweet Bean Café. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and vanilla cake. “Welcome to Sweet Bean,” Mrs. Han, the owner, greeted me kindly in broken English. “Work hard. Smile. Customers like friendly face.” I nodded eagerly, tying my new apron. For the first time since leaving home, I felt a little less lost. The bell above the café door chimed. I glanced up, balancing a tray of cappuccinos. That’s when I saw him. Tall. Sharp jawline. Dark hair that fell perfectly over his forehead. His coat was designer, his shoes polished, his presence commanding. Girls in the corner booth whispered excitedly, their eyes following him. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t look at anyone. He walked straight to the counter, his expression unreadable. “Americano. No sugar,” he said, his voice low, clipped, and of course in perfect English. I scrambled with the buttons on the machine, still learning the café’s system. His gaze lingered, cold and impatient. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked. The words sliced through me. My cheeks burned. I forced my voice to stay calm. “Yes, sir. One Americano. Please wait.” When I placed the cup before him, he didn’t thank me. He just turned away, leaving behind only the faint scent of expensive cologne and the echo of his arrogance. I exhaled shakily, muttering under my breath. “Rude much?” I thought that would be the last I saw of him. Just another entitled customer in a city full of strangers. But I was wrong. The very next morning, when I walked nervously into my first lecture at Seoul National University, clutching my notebook like a lifeline… …he was sitting in the front row. The boy who had just made me feel invisible in the café was not only my customer he was also my classmate. And somehow, I knew this was only the beginning.