Perhaps, what sends you into a slow, spiraling state of simultaneous paralysis and unrest is when your present, adult self finally realizes that the coping mechanisms you so carefully built to protect yourself as a kid aren’t working anymore. And you’re left with a heap of tired bones you try so hard to hold together because while your age has doubled, and your skin has stretched to accommodate your frame, you still are very much a child inside. You’re only trapped in a grown person’s body. You know the right way to do things is to communicate, but the words won’t come out, and you clam yourself up because vulnerability is too much of a risk.

   You want to be loved, but you don’t want to be known—and you’re frustrated but you don’t know where to start and where to end and where to stand in between.

   So, you see a shrink.

   But the shrink tells you to recall your childhood (which you don’t remember), and she tells you to sit with your feelings (which you dread). She mentions how self-aware you are, and you sit there staring at the wall behind her, watching the second hand do a complete cycle, then another, and another, and you wonder if this is worth your £25 per hour. So, without absorbing anything when the session has ended, you flash her a smile, shake her hand firmly, and tell her you’ll see her next week.

   You don’t show up. Ever. Again.

   So you apply for a shady ESL job you found online to finally use your Master’s to good use along with your passport that’s gathering cobwebs in a corner, because why else would you change citizenships if not for better opportunities?

   Then three months later, with no one knowing, you haul yourself into a flying machine made of steel that will transport you across the ocean. You’re left in the silence and white noise with your thoughts, and suddenly everything ebbs because your child self finally asks if what you’re doing is safe, but you do not answer.

   Because you know you’re just as scared as her.

   I stared at what I just wrote on my Moleskine, and I thought expressing what I did in the second-person narrative would throw some sense into me and it would convince me to cancel the job offer, pay the penalty and fees, and return to Belfast.

   But no. I merely stuffed it in my black coat’s pocket and continued to walk towards the arrival area, my suitcase gliding silently against the pristine, tiled floor as I held it beside me. I had shipped my things to my supposed accommodation months prior (as arranged by the agency that hired me), so I didn’t have to worry about lugging any additional baggage.

   Additional baggage. Not that what I had been dragging with me was physical, to begin with.

   The glass door slid open, and what greeted me was a crowd who kept on shuffling between their feet and craning their neck. Everyone wore clothes of similar, neutral shades and designs. A cardigan here, a plain shirt there, khaki shades peppering the almost impenetrable sea of brown slacks and skirts. A row of plant boxes stood between us.

   “—ia! Julia Sinag!”

   Upon hearing my full name, I looked to my right and saw a familiar man wearing a black shirt and a pair of jeans. He held up an iPad with my name blinking in big, bold, neon letters. I gingerly walked towards him. He was the one who interviewed me. He looked more formal over Zoom then, with a crisp suit and a silver wristwatch peeking out of his sleeves.

   “Joon, sir,” I shook hands with him, and he gave way for me briefly. He stuffed his iPad back into his backpack and took my suitcase without a word, and we headed to the exit. He looked much younger in person and even more so because of his casual attire. His hair was unwaxed, cascading over his thick eyebrows and forehead, which were thoroughly exposed during the call.

   “How was the travel?” he asked.

   “Very comfortable, thank you,” I answered. “It was my first time traveling in business class.”

   He grinned. “That’s great to hear. Seventeen hours is a long flight, after all. I’ll be driving you to your new home. It’s quite late, so why don’t we reconvene tomorrow, and I’ll show you around your neighborhood? I’ll also introduce you to our leader.”

   “Leader,” I repeated.

   “He prefers to be called that instead of ‘boss,’” Joon replied.

   I nodded, unsure of how to respond. Is this a cult? Did I join a cult? “That would be lovely, thank you.”

   Joon closed the trunk of his sedan as if sealing the deal, along with my fate.

   It was almost midnight, and the cold air nipped at my nose, making it numb and red. Winter in Seoul was clear, dry, and brittle—a vast difference from Belfast’s usually bleak and cloudy days, drizzled with scattered spells of rain and mist.

   “I know you’re tired, but let’s eat something along the way,” Joon suggested as he looked around. He exhaled, and his breath was visible. “Something warm, most preferably.”
  

   His name was registered on LinkedIn as Joon Bae, a recruiter under an agency called Infinite Company. He was looking for a proofreader and a (vaguely stated) social media manager who would oversee their stakeholder’s content. He had a strong preference for someone with experience in teaching English to non-native speakers. I somewhat met most of the role’s prerequisites. Still, I would think what bolstered my application was my degree and multiple certificates I collected in my early twenties out of desperation to make something out of my bachelor’s.

   The benefits were heaven-sent, and the wage was too good to be true, which made the possibility of everything being a scam very probable. But I took the bait, and a free plane ticket and accommodation later, I was on another foreign soil to restart my life.

   I scoffed at my impulsiveness.

   Who restarts their life at thirty?