Tomi's POV
I didn't sleep. I mean, technically my eyes closed a few times, but it wasn't real sleep. It was that kind where your brain just replays the same thing over and over — the photo of Min-Jae's car, crushed at the front, glass glittering under streetlights, the headline in Hangul that my translator app stumbled over: Actor Min-Jae Involved in Late-Night Collision. Every time I drifted off, I'd wake up gasping, phone in my hand, screen burning my face.
Nothing. No new updates. No official statement. Just speculation and recycled photos. By morning, my body felt like it had been wrung out. The dorm was quiet, but the air felt heavy — or maybe it was just me. Yuri was still asleep, earplugs in, Sasha's blanket was pulled over her head, and Nia's bed was empty because she had some early lab session. I sat there for a while, staring at the wall, trying to convince myself to get up. When I finally dragged myself into my clothes, the campus felt… colder. Not literally — it was still that sharp, early spring kind of chill — but the world looked washed out. Every sound seemed muted. People were moving around me, talking, laughing, rushing to class, and I was just… moving through it like a ghost. I kept checking my phone under the desk during lectures. My brain wasn't registering half of what the professor was saying. I copied down words mechanically, but the sentences didn't make sense. By the time class ended, I couldn't remember a single thing we'd covered. It didn't get better over the week. Assignments started piling up, and I kept telling myself I'd catch up. Except… I didn't. I'd open my laptop, stare at the screen, and then check Twitter for "Min-Jae accident" again. Same photos. Same rumors. A couple of "sources" claiming to know someone at the hospital, but nothing confirmed. Then came the moment I knew I was in trouble. It was in my International Trade lecture — the professor called my name. "Tomi," he said, his tone sharp. I looked up, blinking, my pen halfway in the air. "Can you answer the question?" The room felt like it tilted. People turned to look at me. My brain scrambled, but I hadn't even heard the question. "I— um— sorry, I didn't—" His sigh was loud. "Please, try to keep your attention in class." The heat rushed to my face. I mumbled something and wrote nonsense in my notebook until the lecture ended. That evening, the email came.
Subject: Meeting Request – Academic Performance Review
From: Student Affairs Office
They wanted me in their office the next day. The meeting was worse than I imagined. A woman with rimless glasses and a soft but clipped voice explained that they'd noticed "a sudden decline" in my class participation and assignment submissions. She reminded me that my scholarship wasn't just based on grades but also "active engagement in academic activities." I sat there nodding, heart pounding so loud I barely heard the rest. The only words that stuck were: "One more formal warning could result in a review of your scholarship status." The words lose my scholarship rattled in my head the whole walk back to the dorm. I couldn't afford to lose my scholarship. And then, another problem yet. Money. That night, I checked my account balance. I knew it wasn't great, but seeing the number there, small and pathetic, made my chest tighten. Between food, books, and random expenses, I'd been coasting on the assumption that I'd be fine as long as the scholarship covered tuition and housing. But now? If I lost it? Forget staying here. I'd be on the next flight back to Lagos, scholarship dream over, degree unfinished. I didn't even think about it for long , I opened job boards and started applying. Cafés, convenience stores, small restaurants, tutoring gigs. I didn't care. I just needed extra income. By the end of the week, I had a part-time job at a small family-run café three subway stops away. Evening shifts. The family that owned the café were skeptical at first because I was black. After series of questions, I was finally able to get the job. It wasn't an easy job, mostly washing dishes and cleaning tables. The first week nearly broke me. I'd rush from lectures straight to the subway, work until 10:30 p.m., then get back to the dorm, shower, and collapse into bed. Sometimes I was too tired to even eat. My mornings became a blur of alarms I snoozed too many times, running to class with my hair barely combed, stomach growling. The exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was in my brain too — like someone had turned down the brightness inside my head. Conversations with my friends got shorter. I'd zone out in the middle of a sentence. Even my Korean started slipping. I'd stand at the café counter, trying to respond to a customer, and the words would jam in my throat. "You look like death," Yuri said one night when I dragged myself into the dorm. She handed me a cup of instant ramen without asking. "I'm fine," I muttered, slumping into my chair. "You're not," she said, but didn't push it. Nia was quieter about it. She just left little things on my desk — an energy bar, a pack of vitamin C tablets. Sasha tried to make me laugh, telling me stories about weird customers at her own part-time job, but even her jokes felt far away. And still, through all of it — every night before I slept, I checked for news about Min-Jae. There were tiny updates. He was "recovering in a private facility." No details. No photos. Just vague reassurance. But something in me didn't trust it. I wanted to hear from him. See him. Know for sure. One night, I stayed late at the café because the owner had to close up early. I wiped down the last table, put the chairs up, and stood there staring out at the empty street. Neon signs flickered against the wet pavement. My phone was in my hand, screen lighting up my face. Still nothing. The hum of the fridge filled the silence. My reflection in the dark window looked tired — dark circles, hair in a messy bun, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. For a second, I imagined him walking past the window, hands in pockets, giving me that half-smile I'd seen once. It was stupid. I blinked, and the street was empty again. I pressed my forehead to the glass, the cold seeping in. "Come on," I whispered. "Just be okay."