With a sudden jolt, Jisoo ripped open our dorm room door as I sat on the couch reading. She was crying and it looked like she had been for a while, her makeup smeared, her hair a bit of a mess. I instantly leapt up from the couch, my book dropping to the floor, and I rushed over to her.

“What’s wrong?” I said, trying to catch her attention. I felt frantic. Anxious.

“Jennie,” she moaned sadly, lunging toward me and pulling me against her in a tight hug. “Oh my God!”

“Jisoo,” I said. “What happened? What’s going on?” I lovingly held her back, holding her close, scared for her.

“Jennie,” she said again through tears. “My Grandma died.”

“Oh no!” I exclaimed, squeezing her, allowing her to sob into my shoulder. I tried to comfort her by softly petting her hair, straightening it out, untangling some of her tendrils.

“She had a heart attack,” said Jisoo, emitting little chirpy cries. “She had a heart attack and died.”

“I’m sorry, Jisoo,” I said, mourning with her. “That’s terrible news. Let’s go sit down.” Jisoo nodded her head against me, and we parted from our hug. I took her hand and lead her over to the couch.

“It was so sudden,” she sniffled as we collapsed together onto the couch.

“I understand,” I said. But I always had a difficult time with empathy, especially so in this case because none of my grandparents were dead. It’s not that I was an emotionless person, or bereft inside of feeling, it was always just something I found difficult to relate with. I could understand that people feel bad when something bad happens, but it didn’t inspire a similar feeli