Genre: Fluff, Romance, Slice of Life

Summary: Minju is a high schooler with deep anxiety and unconfidence. When she meets an anonymous writer with the name An Yujin through a mysterious entity called the Korean Pen Society, she finds her solace in her comforting words. In an unlikely story, the two get a chance meeting in a world they don't belong in.

Word Count: 4663

Hashtag: #JinjooFiestaS2_WindowsBlinkTwice

Windows Blink Twice

Dear Kim Min-joo:

Outside my window, the forsythia groves have begun to shimmer beautiful golden hues from the light rains that run awash. The chilly morning air has been replaced with a delicate pitter-patter, strangely with birdsong mixed within it.

Once again, your letter has captivated me once more. . . .

            Kim Min-joo closed her eyes tightly as the strong winds battered her gentle face, whipping up her hair, annoyingly. It howled as it passed through her; it made her feel as if she was fluttering like a caught piece of paper. The open air had a hint of ocean brine, masked by the sting of the nose that comes with an early morning. She heard a man playing with his dog out on the sand--and beyond the occasional blued, faraway plane that flew out of Incheon Airport, there was the sound of the crashing surf that enveloped all around her. It was crisp and clear, as if she could make out every single wave. Min-joo opened up her eyes, and saw the white ocean waves slowly lap up on the shore, renewing the seafoam being carried by the ocean breeze. She shrivelled in the cold, barely clinging to the outcropping of rock that protruded from the sand.

            Off in the distance, the beach swept out farther out to sea, and there were warm, twinkling lights that dotted the coast and penetrated the blue morning fog. A fishing fleet was slowly going out. From these came the sounds of cars rolling across the road behind Min-joo.

            She quietly folded up the letter, and gently placed it into her pocket.

            As she walked up the neighbourhood road nestled in the highlands, she heard the sounds of the ocean faintly in the background. The ebb and flow of the tide was calming to Min-joo. She felt the roar of the waves as it crashed against the wet sand, and how it softly simmered as the beach foam gently receded. Min-joo hummed to herself when a car or a person passed. Beyond the crest, she stopped humming and looked beyond to see the houses end and terraced farmland begin. Interspersed between the fields were large greenhouses that reminded her of the ones at the campus gardens. The bus stop was just a little further ahead. She took off her earbuds, and stuffed them in her school bag. Inside, as she began to check: her phone, textbooks, a cushion, some toiletries, and as she rummaged further: a small makeup pouch (which was not allowed in school), her bus pass, and identification card.

            She stared at the card she held in her hand. The face that stared right back held a slight, contained smile that evinced a feeling of a new, positive start that would later be false, and her shapely face paired with Korean features with the same semblance as anyone else’s gave little indication that she was anyone special. At the time the photo was taken, she wore her hair with no bangs, which she came to later hate. In the slight sheen of the card, she saw her reflection, the reflection of the real world within the card’s ignorant and dull fantasy: She couldn’t bring herself to smile nowadays, and her small dimples never showed.

            A delivery motorbike passed too quickly, frightening her. The identification card tumbled a few feet across the asphalt, and stopped just short of the gutter. She picked it up, afraid of some scratches she found, but they were only the same scratches as before, when she was pushed in the hallway last week. A small red stamp was beside some mundane information, and above was the official crest of Chung Nam Samsung Academy.

            The public bus heaved to a stop with the loud hiss of the air brakes. Some elderly, but mostly students began to occupy the bus as they filed in front of Min-joo.

            The road to Asan was only two lanes, and was thinned at some points as it hugged the hillsides or rounded about dangerous cliffs. The driver slowed down, asking for those who sat to give their seats to the elderly or disabled. Min-joo gazed outside, and saw the morning mist lie within the basin at the foot of the mountains. Forests of pine stood still. Beyond the metal railing that flanked the road were occasional telephones affixed to wooden power lines. These glowed a sanitary bluish-green tint because of mercury lamps atop the poles. Min-joo knew what these telephones were for.

            As the bus navigated through the morning road, all was silent save for the cabin heater and the diesel engine. Outside, beneath Min-joo’s reflection, it passed through several wooden signs written in both Korean and English:

            “YOU HAVE ONLY ONE LIFE. DON’T THROW IT AWAY.”

            “IF YOU HAVE THE COURAGE TO JUMP, YOU HAVE THE COURAGE TO LIVE.”

. . .

            “For those who have gotten points off today, you will be cleaning the classroom. The class president will now hand out the mock exams. You will have until Monday to complete it. Please finish the homework on Kim Dong-in by then.”

            The electronic bell sounded, prompting the classroom to stand up and move about. Those who didn’t have cushions stretched their arms toward the ceiling unenthused, while girls began to pool together and file out the door in groups. Min-joo packed her things as quickly as she could, and left with unnecessary diligence.

            She stood in line to the snack shop, engulfed by the seemingly false energetic motion of the students before and after her. Min-joo looked down onto her phone, and checked the time. She was sure that she could skip another meal to study, but last time that happened, she could barely keep herself awake for the in-class problems. It was better to eat while studying, no matter how distracted she would be. She sighed to herself, and looked around. She held in a personal feeling of smallness, and meekly made her way through the lunch line to the courtyards outside.

            The courtyards were wide and open, with planters surrounded by grass at their centers, and open wooden benches that were shaded. At some parts of the courtyards, one can see the mountain ranges between the school buildings, which Min-joo frequently noticed because of their resplendent colour. Superimposed against the low mountains coated with vivid elm and pine belts was the giant, multi-story structure of her campus. It was modern-looking, with many floor-to-ceiling windows and metal construction that offered a sleek yet modest profile fit for an environment of learning. As it was her first year there, it still felt as if she were in a foreign city, replete with colourless classrooms and mostly empty hallways. Deeply seated in Min-joo was a feeling of social ennui that she couldn’t break from, and she felt as if it was a wall surrounding her at all times. Her face was not of a person who tried to delve in others’ affairs--Rather, it is like a closed window that she sometimes opens; opens to let the sunshine in just a little bit, just enough, only to be shut away.

. . .

            After guitar class, Min-joo was sitting in the school greenhouses. The sun was beginning to set, and it had laid its brilliance from within the greenhouse. In the air were the echoes of chanting from the track team as they did their laps. Further in the distance were many birds whose shrills barely pierced the air.

            The greenhouse contained an assortment of perennials, whose vivid reds, blues, and whites compensated for the dull interior. The door was ajar, allowing air to liberally course around the inside.

            Min-joo had learned to think about the beauty of flowers while in school. However, it never had gone past the need for mere sentimental appreciation. Its beauty and essence were just that--and hidden beneath it was nothing more than what she could see. She had thought to herself that she counted this fact more worthwhile than anything else in its stead, however she grew more and more restless at the fact that it wasn’t getting her anywhere. She felt exceedingly lonely, more than usual, more than ever before.

            After Yaja, the students would return to the dormitory buildings in the middle of the night, the bedrooms of which consisted of no more than half a pyeong in length, suited to four people. The desks were adjoined to small beds, the tops of which had a small wooden shelf.

            On a hot summer’s night, the window was open, and her roommates were sleeping in light clothing and no blankets. Min-joo’s lamp was the only source of light, and in the dim, warm glow of it, a pencil’s shadow was bobbing up and down.

            “Dear Pen-master, this morning I had gone to the beach alone,” Min-joo wrote. “I have a mock exam in a few days, so I have been studying a lot more than usual. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen or heard any of my family, and my classmates have been going to individual study in-between classes. . .”

            A few weeks ago, she had found a flyer for the Korean Pen Society, a so-called organisation for people to improve their letter-writing skills by sending personalised mail to an assigned pen-master of the opposite . “You, too, can learn to write captivating letters,” boasted the flyer. She was interested in its premise despite feeling like the only person in the school who considered it, and decided to send a letter to the mysterious Korean Pen Society to a seemingly random address located in Daejeon. Within days, the response letter came back along with her original:

Dear Ms. Kim Min-joo:

Outside my window, the groves of forsythia that have once shed their leaves have now latened into their verdant yellows. In this summer’s day, the cicadas’ glassy noises fill the soft evening air.

I have written to you because you have requested for me to critique your letter. Though I find your enclosed “member dues” sufficient and appropriate, I must respectfully decline this money offered since you need not send any to us.

It was a pleasure to read your letter. The way you had described life at your school was vivid and surreal, as if I was amongst the students milling about. I truly felt the social anxiety that you have described when going from class to class, and the pressures of life were detailed with sharp accuracy. It caused a great pain in my heart that someone holds this feeling for themselves, as well as a deep admiration for a writer who had a naturally artistic sense of life.

In the course of my reading, one particular moment I would like to mention was your intensely descriptive passage on home economics. It was incredibly lifelike, and you had delicately painted a picture of the perfect fish cake in my mind. So, I had made up my mind to get some fish cake next time I was out and about.

I went to a well-known restaurant around this town for the first time to try my own taste of a perfect fish cake. The place was inside of a renovated warehouse: A tacky assortment of American neon signs were on the brick walls, and plastered onto the wooden posts were other foreign magazine covers. A few TV’s were on for tonight’s game. The Twins had half their bases loaded, but were barely catching up to the Bears at the bottom of the fifth. The crowded atmosphere was otherwise intense--yet all that was in my mind was your letter and the fish cakes.

Well, on the menu, there was eomuk-bukkeum, there was eomuk-jeongol, and there was even eomuk-tang. However, there was no simple eomuk.

The waitress smiled at my request, and polit