Seul: The Broken Symphony/Episode 3

Author’s Note:

Here are the translations for the Korean words used in this episode/chapter:

• Komapsmida (고맙습니다): Thank you (formal)
• Jihoo-ah (지후아): A casual/familiar way to call someone named Jihoo (the “-ah” is used for close friends or family)
• Ya (야): Hey! (used to get someone’s attention)
• Oppa (오빠): What a younger sister/cousin calls her older brother or older male relative/friend
• Harabeoji (할아버지): Grandfather
• Halmeoni (할머니): Grandmother
• Saranghae (사랑해): I love you
• Aish (아이씨): An exclamation of annoyance or frustration, like “ugh” or “dang it”

Episode 3

“Emery! It’s time for dinner!” Mom’s voice echoes up the stairs.

I stare at the ceiling and sigh. Ever since I agreed to go to school in person, Mom has been unnaturally happy—like we had never fought about it, like she hadn’t been embarrassed.

Pushing myself off the bed, I shuffle toward the door and close it softly behind me. On my way down the stairs, I run into Dad.

“Hey, bud.” He offers me a small smile. When I don’t return it, he pats my shoulder. “Listen, your mom’s in a good mood. Can you just… cooperate for me?”

I nod curtly and continue downstairs. The moment Mom sees me, she beams, pulling me into a hug before guiding me to my seat at the table. Dad returns moments later and gives me a look—his silent reminder to behave.

Several of my favorite dishes are laid out—tteokbokki, gimbap, and more. I raise an eyebrow at Dad as Mom brings out yet another side dish. What is this about?

She takes a seat, still beaming, and says grace.

“Well?” she asks expectantly.

“Merci,” I say, giving her a small bow—something I picked up from watching Dad.

Her smile falters, just slightly. “What do you think of the food?”

“I haven’t had any yet, so…”

Dad shoots me a warning look.

“The variety is nice,” I add quickly before filling my plate.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say, Maman?” Annoyance creeps into my voice.

“I… nothing.” She forces a smile and starts plating her own food.

I pick up my chopsticks, whisper a quick prayer, and pop a steaming rice cake into my mouth, chewing fast to avoid burning my tongue.

“Do you know why I prepared all this?” Mom’s eyes are practically glowing. “For you!” She claps her hands together before I can even answer. “I did it all for you!”

“Merci. Komapsmida,” I say sincerely, offering another bow.

“You’ve been doing so well at school, and I’m so proud of you.”

I scoff before I can stop myself. “I was doing well before.”

“Jihoo-ah,” Dad warns.

“Was I not doing well in school before?” My voice rises. “You make it sound like I was failing. Attending in person hasn’t changed anything, Maman, it—”

“But it has changed you,” she interrupts. “Look how bold you’re being.”

I let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. She’s serious?

“Emery, you need to learn to be more social—like your cousins—”

That’s it. I shove my chair back and stand.

“Excuse me,” I say through gritted teeth, grabbing my plate before storming out.

* * * * * 

Later that night, my phone is propped on a pillow while I lean against the bed frame, half-listening to my cousin Hana. She’s sprawled across her bed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her wall plastered with posters.

“And you should just see him, Oppa,” she gushes.

“Who?” I realize I wasn’t paying attention.

“Aven,” she says dreamily, pointing over her shoulder at a poster on her wall. His perfect smile beams down at me from the glossy paper.

“Oh.” I take another bite of food.

“But I don’t get why they won’t tour here! London, Italy, Germany, France—everywhere else gets them. But us? Canada’s apparently invisible,” Hana huffs, switching to rapid-fire Korean.

I reach for my water—only to remember I left it downstairs. Great. No way I’m going back down after the attitude I gave my parents. Dad had looked so disappointed. He warned me, and I hadn’t listened.

I groan, pressing my eyes shut. I don’t want to think about my stupid cousins from Mom’s side. She wanted me to be social like them? They weren’t social, they were—

“Ya!” Hana snaps.

“English, Hana,” I mumble, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t paying attention.

“How can you not understand Korean?” She throws up her hands, exasperated. “You’re half-Korean for crying out loud!”

“It’s not that deep,” I say, setting my empty plate on the nightstand.

“It is, though. How are you supposed to write music in Korean if you can’t even speak it?”

“I never said I can’t speak it,” I shoot back. “And who says I want to make a song in—”

“Aish!” Hana cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “You seriously don’t get it. You already look like an idol. With some training, people would confuse you for a rookie from EVOQ.” She points at one of her posters for emphasis.

“Training?” I echo, slightly offended.

“Real talk, though,” her voice softens, “your music’s good, but it’s not there yet. You’re not writing from your heart, Jihoo. Authentic feelings make authentic music.”

I sigh. Hana always sees through me. She’s like the little sister I never had.

“Why do you do that?” I ask.

“What?”

“Call me Jihoo.”

“That’s your name,” she says flatly, like it’s obvious.

“I prefer Emery.”

“Everyone who calls you that is just making fun of you. Besides, the meaning of your Korean name fits you better.”

Wisdom and intelligence.

I scoff, shaking my head. “Harabeoji and Halmeoni don’t think so.”

“Oppa,” Hana says seriously, “stop worrying about what other people think. Start having higher expectations for yourself, okay? I gotta go. Saranghae.”

And just like that, she hangs up—leaving me alone with my thoughts.