Walking to the counsellor’s office, I can’t help but feel like a freshman again. Partially because three years in and I still don’t know where the guidance office is. Until I was forced to actually visit, I didn’t even know the university had a functional counsellor. But I like walking. In the mornings, not so much. The rolling green lawns in between the mixed-and-matched old and modern buildings are always filled with students with their backpacks forever in a hurry. Every one of them so purposeful with every step, you’ll see me and it’s obvious I have no idea what I’m doing here.

The irony is, all I can think of at this moment is that if I were in a music video, the setting would be perfect for an upbeat indie-rock track. Something Jae would play on guitar when he knows he has an audience. A song that, despite yourself, compels you to dance.

I make it ten minutes early to the student services building and follow the map to Dr. Choi’s office on the third floor. When I get there, I tell the student assistant working the front desk  my name and she gives me a look that says it’s too early in the morning for conversation. After she’s checked the schedule, she wordlessly directs me to the empty seats lining the hall. I pick up a copy of the university paper and leaf through last semester’s headlines until my name is called.

I knock twice on Dr. Choi’s door before twisting the knob open. In my head, I pictured an office like you see in the movies or on TV—heavy wood furnishings, wall-to-wall bookshelves filled with textbooks and biographies, and a comfortable couch where I’m supposed to lie down and get asked to talk about my life and answer questions like “So how do you feel about that?” What I get instead is a simple office with beige walls, a wide desk, and two comfortable seats across it.

Dr. Choi is a matronly lady who looks like she’s only in her forties, but something about her short curly hair and powder blue blazer makes me think she’s older than that. Her eyes twinkle at me from behind her wire-framed spectacles, and she waves her wrinkled hand towards a chair. “Have a seat,” she says. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I sit down as I’m told but I don’t remove my jacket. Suddenly, the room feels smaller. Overcrowded. I stare at the diplomas and certificates on the walls. They’re up there to assure you you’re in good hands, that your doctor knows what she’s doing, but all I feel is a heavy sense of apprehension and dread. Especially when she begins reading my file.

“How are you doing this morning?” she asks. What was it about therapists—not that I had experience with them at all—that made them sound so creepy all the time? So calm and soothing. So devoid of the normal range of vocal high-frequencies.

I drop my gaze to my knees. “I’m fine.”

“Do you understand why the associate dean recommended that you come and see me?”

I really don’t. Coming here like this is almost like admitting there’s something wrong with me. I’m fine. Peachy, in fact. I’m not any worse than any other student in college. We’re all drowning in schoolwork, not getting enough sleep, and living off takeout food and instant ramyun. Everyone’s depressed. It’s not a big deal. Me being here is a waste of department resources. If they really want to help someone out, they should probably look into that kid who tried to jump off the fifth floor of the science complex. Or that other guy who walks around campus with a Free Hugs sign hanging down his neck. Or that weird bowler hat girl with violet hair. If they really want to help me, they should just let me graduate with a clean record.

I choose my words carefully. “He thinks I have problems?”

“And what do you think?”

“I think he’s overreacting.”

“Do you think that’s reasonable?”

“This is about the broadcast thing, isn’t it? I was just helping out a friend get rid of a creepy stalker guy. Technically, we’re allowed to swear on radio after midnight and we had, like, thirteen people online. It’s not like we’re even in actual trouble. Maybe you should talk to the creep instead? He’s the one who reported me anyway.”

She writes something down on her notepad. “It’s okay if you’re nervous, that’s perfectly normal. You’re not in trouble. We’re just here to talk. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Dr. Choi asks, folding her arms on the desk. “That seems like a good start.”

I shrug. What do I have to do to get this hour over with? “There really isn’t anything to talk about? There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Dr. Choi gently smiles at me. “There doesn’t have to be anything wrong with you. We could just talk. Is there anything that’s been troubling you lately?”

Right. As if I would tell a complete stranger the story of my life. “Not really. It’s only a  few hours into the semester, no homework yet.”

“What about the past semester?”

“Not that I can think of, no.”

She scribbles more stuff in her notes. Even if I lean forward, the table is too wide and the counsellor’s penmanship is too small for me to read what she’s writing. She’s probably saying things like denial or passive-aggressive or something. All of it untrue.

“It doesn’t have to be a crisis,” she continues. “It could be anything. What’s going on in your life, what have you been up to lately. Simple things such as those.”

“Just…normal stuff? Nothing really happens in my life. ”

“Is there a reason why?”

I shake my head.

Dr. Choi just smiles placidly to herself. “I can tell this is uncomfortable for you. But I assure you, you’re free to speak freely and bluntly about whatever comes to mind.”

This is getting ridiculous. “There really isn’t anything.”

“I’ve heard you’ve been on break from the radio.”

“I was.”

“Are you excited to go back?”

“I just came from there, actually.”

“What’s it like, being in radio again after the break?”

“Like I never even left? Seriously, there’s nothing to talk about. I’ve been on break from the radio before too. Can you just please tell me what this is about? It’s not like I’m here because I want to. Or because I think I need to.”

Dr. Choi adjusts her glasses. “Your program adviser has noticed a dip in your grades last semester. He’s under the impression that your grades and your output is not an accurate reflection of your potential. He says your performance in music labs have always been exceptional, but your submitted work does not reflect that. If you’ve submitted work at all. He’s worried you might be going through difficulties.”

“I’m not going through anything. I guess I’m just not as good as he likes to think I am.”

“You guess? Do you think the way you’ve been participating in class is equivalent to your grades on paper?”

I wish I could say that my talents can’t be graded on paper, but sadly I don’t have that excuse now. It’s not like I’m forced to take math or science or any other subject I more at than what I’m doing now. “I'm not failing my classes.” Technically, I wasn’t. I barely held on to the passing marks by my fingernails. “Am I in trouble here? Is there really a reason for me to be here? At all?”

Dr. Choi carefully closes her notepad and lays it to the side of her table and then folds her hands on her desk. Every action feels so deliberate, I can feel the air stirring around her. “You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you’re worried abou