The morning at the dormitory—turning on the radio to hear about the economy 🔍

The small transistor radio on the shelf crackles to life at 7:30, and the news anchor's voice is steady but grave: another company filing for bankruptcy, another factory laying off workers, the banks still in chaos. I sit on the edge of the bed in my t-shirt, listening. Six months since the IMF crisis hit, and it still doesn't feel real—like waking up in a country that looks the same but is somehow broken underneath. My older brother called last week to say his company might merge or disappear; my parents' savings have already shrunk so much that my mother's voice sounded thin on the phone. I pull on my worn jeans, tie my sneakers—both from two years ago, now part of my permanent uniform of necessity. The window ledge is dusty; even the morning light seems tired.

The convenience store shift—counting won bills in the cramped back room 🔍

At the GS25 near campus, I stand at the register in my faded navy uniform polo, counting out the morning till while the manager reviews the overnight receipts with a frown. The store is quieter than it used to be; fewer people buying things on credit now. During a slow stretch in the early afternoon, I'm in the back room, sorting through the stacks of smaller bills—fewer large denominations are coming in these days, it seems. The fluorescent light hums above, casting everything in that pale institutional glow. An older woman comes in around 2 p.m., buys instant ramyeon and a small bottle of soju, paying with coins, and I recognize the kind of quiet desperation in her face. I hand her the plastic bag gently. The owner's daughter called about her college application earlier, but I didn't ask if she was still planning to go abroad; it seemed unkind.