The acceptance letter arrived on a balmy Thursday afternoon, in a long white envelope with gold letters spelling out my address. I found the timing rather strange, for exciting things never chose to happen on Thursday. Because of this fact, I've always considered Thursday as a "filler" day. It's not as anticipated by the general public as Friday always is, and the poor thing is far too overlooked to take on Wednesday's role as the middle man. Aware of these impediments, it decided to be a whole new different day, squeezing itself in between the two others so that the week could have a lucky number of days. What I'm trying to get across here is that Thursdays exist when, in all honesty, they shouldn't. (I assume you would've preferred the abridged version, but then you wouldn't have known the full story. So be glad.)

Cecilia was the one who delivered the envelope to me. She was a short, elderly woman with graying hair that she, surprisingly, never wore in a bun, as one would expect from old female butlers. My mother had met her on a family vacation in Sweden long before I was born (or, as Mother had told me, "In a distant time when I was your age and Cecilia's hair was brown—can you imagine that? You can't, can you?"), and she was part of nearly all of my childhood memories. Mother was two decades younger than Cecilia, who was sixty-four, and Grandfather had hired her as a maid when she was in her thirties. She'd grown fond of Mother quickly when she was younger, just as she had with me when I was a child.

"Delivery for you, chéri," Cecilia said, appearing in the doorway with the letter clasped between her pale, thin fingers. "If I'm correct, Hanlyu Academy of the Arts is the name of that school in Korea that you applied to?"

"You're correct." I shut my laptop and motioned for her to come in. I eyed the envelope and a sudden, unexpected nervousness formed in the pit of my stomach. Immediately I diverted my gaze, directing it elsewhere. I changed the topic, exhaling a dramatic sigh. "Cecilia, how many times do I have to tell you that you don't have to call me that?"

She entered the room, the wrinkle of a smile appearing among the many that lined her face. I didn't understand why people dreaded growing older. It was because of Cecilia that I wasn't a victim of sharing a belief in that stigma. Cecilia was the most elegant old woman I knew, far more graceful in her simple black attire and sensible shoes than those younger than her who paraded the streets of Lyon clad in sweeping evening dresses and diamond necklaces. Granted, I was probably going to end up just like them with the way I dressed now (after all, why would you dress simply when you could dress extravagantly?), but I'd made up my mind that when I reached the later part of my life, I would emulate Cecilia as best as I could.

"What? I called you by your name, did I not?"

"You did not." My tone was falsely strict, and a smile was tugging at the corners of my mouth, as it often did when I was around Cecilia. "'Chéri' is not what it says on my birth certificate."

"What would you know about your birth certificate?" Amused, Cecilia crossed her arms and gave me a smirk of endearment. "You've never once looked at it."

While this was true, it was also a fact that my name was not what Cecilia claimed it to be. My name's Seri. I had no idea what it meant and, in retrospect, I realized that I'd never once bothered to ask my mother about it. Was I named after a relative, or maybe a character from a book or film? Did my name even mean anything? (If it did, I wished it meant something like "princess" or "angel" or perhaps "precious" in a language from some lost civilization.) I was never told the answers to these questions, particularly because my curiosity never reached the point of having to voice them. What I think of my name is usually fairly simple—it's not the most magnificent name, but it's pretty and it suits me, so I like it.

"Where shall I put this?" Cecilia took a few steps inside before stopping, the hand holding the envelope outstretched towards me. "Are you going to be opening it now, mon chéri?"

Shaking my head, I gestured for her to place it atop my nightstand. "I'll look at it later." Honestly, I wanted to never look at it. The nauseating sensation in my stomach was now transferring itself to my brain, scattering the thoughts around and rendering my vision shaky.

Cecilia nodded slightly, her expression unreadable, as she walked over and gently set it down like it was some kind of infant animal. She made her way back to the door but paused before leaving the room, and I knew then that she'd sensed my anxiety. "Will you be coming down for afternoon tea? Hana made lemon bars."

Hana, my younger sister, possessed an uncanny talent for baking that was otherwise absent in girls her age. By default, I was designated her taste tester. Countless afternoons were spent sitting in the kitchen with a magazine, swinging my legs off the chair as the strong aroma of vanilla diffused throughout the room. It was strange to see a ten-year-old wear an apron so often, and you couldn't possibly imagine how embarrassing (extremely) it was to have a fifth-grader make better sugar cookies than you. After failing to pick up the art of baking myself, I came to terms with the fact that I would never be as good as her in that department, and I didn't mind anymore. Besides, she really was an amazing baker. I was convinced that her madeleines were the best in all of France, and she had the blue ribbons in her room to prove it.

However, my normally demanding sweet tooth was presently dormant. Actually, I was in no mood to eat anything, not even some of Hana's creations. Sour bile arose in my throat just at the thought of tasting and chewing something. Oddly enough, I was choosing to keep the bland tastelessness in my mouth.

"Maybe later," I said, lying down on my stomach as I picked up the remote to the television in my room.

The device blinked to life, and I craned my neck to look up at it, surfing through the available channels without really paying attention. From the corner of my eye, I could see Cecilia watching me as she hesitated in the doorway. "Seri," she said, much to my astonishment. I hadn't heard her address me by my name in a long time. My eyes instantly darted from the banal car commercial on the screen to her smile, one of gentle warmth that only a guardian angel could have. That smile told me that she could understand all that I was thinking and feeling. She didn't need to say anything, for her smile spoke words I could already hear. But, being Cecilia, she did anyway. "You needn't worry. I know that you are wanted at that school."

I offered her a weak smile in return. "How do you know?"

"Cecilia has what they call X-ray vision." Using two fingers, she gestured to her eyes, her smile transitioning into a lighthearted, almost childlike grin. "It's been passed down my family for generations. The Lundgren secret."

She brought up a finger to her lips, hissing to make a "hush" sound before chuckling at her own little joke. Even in my state of distress, I couldn't help but laugh along. This was another thing with Cecilia—she was aware of when the atmosphere would turn uncomfortable for the other person, and she'd know exactly when and how to prevent it from happening.

"I'm not nervous," I fibbed, tossing my hair for added effect while I pasted a sickeningly wide smile onto my cheeks. It didn't feel as it if belonged there, kind of like it was a hat you liked—it matched with your outfit, it was just plain cute, whatever—and therefore wanted to wear, but it kept slanting to one side when you put it on. I toned it down a notch as I continued spitting out words I didn't quite believe in. "Hanlyu was practically begging for me to attend their school."

"Now, now, don't go turning all snooty and self-centered before you've accomplished anything. You're not a celebrity just yet." Her tone of voice told me that her words were meant to tease, but her pale blue eyes stared straight at me, completely serious.

I nodded, adding a dramatic roll of the eyes. "Of course not. I know that. Now, if you'll kindly leave, I have my daytime programs to get to." (This was another lie. Save for a couple of fashion design shows and some news reports, I hardly found anything on television interesting. Melodramas aimed at my melodramatic demographic made me sick in a way similar to how I was feeling now; cartoons failed to elicit laughs—or any kind of reaction, really—from me; and, though I loved volleyball, I much preferred playing the game instead of watching people play it for me.) Sitting up and crossing my legs, I waved my hand dismissively towards her. "Could you close the door on your way out, Cecilia?"

"Of course, chéri." So it was back to that unnecessary moniker. I drew out a long sigh and shook my head, catching a glimpse of the blithe twinkle that returned to her eyes. She turned around, slowly closing the door. "If you get hungry, come downstairs."

"Yes, Cecilia," I said right before the door shut silently behind her.

And now I was alone. When you're alone, it's much easier for you to become trapped in your own thoughts. Whether or not this was a good thing depends on the situation. In my case, it wasn't a good thing.

I looked around me for no particular reason. (Maybe I was stalling. Could you even call it 'stalling'? It wasn't like there was a time limit, right? Well, actually, it did feel like there was one, as I could practically hear an invisible clock ticking away over my head.)

The incessant nausea bubbling inside of me took this opportunity to intensify until it reached its nasty peak. It took on numerous shapes and forms in a short amount of time, and I had to lie down on my bed as the effects struck, closing my eyes and waiting for it to all just stop. I moaned with every successful backflip and somersault it landed in my stomach, causing my vision to reel faster and my head to pound harder. I even had to take deep breaths to rid myself of the approaching urge to vomit. (I had to put extra effort into this because I really did not want to puke. We both know that girls like me aren't supposed to do that kind of thing. Ever.)

It weakened significantly after fifteen minutes of my immobilization, focusing on nothing but breathing, and I eventually managed to sit up and reach for the letter on the nightstand.

"Here goes." I said this to no one in particular. (Okay, that's a lie. I said this mainly for my benefit. You know, kind of like how people nod to themselves and say "Okay" before they do something? But I also said it to reassure someone else that I was ready for this, a person who wasn't present in my room—or in the house, or in the same continent—someone far, far away who I desperately wanted to be next to me at that moment.)

I opened the envelope and pulled out what was inside. There were several pieces of paper; I took that as a good sign. I chose to read the paper with the school crest and the headmasters' names printed on the top. Staring at the crest to delay reading about the fate that awaited me only a couple of lines down, I noted that it was black and gold, designed with what appeared to be an abstract take on a starry night sky. I studied it thoroughly until I became frustrated with myself and forced my eyes downwards.

(You already know what it says, don't you? Let me quote the first few words of this chapter if you've forgotten—no offense, but your memory must be terrible if that's the case: "the acceptance letter". Emphasis on "acceptance"? Yes, that's right. So now you're probably just waiting for my inevitable—and may I also say uncharacteristic—moment of freaking out. What you're about to witness isn't something I usually do. I swear. I swear this on my entire jewelry collection.)

I read only part of the first sentence ("Miss Seri Shin, we are pleased to inform you that…") before I was overwhelmed with sheer happiness and delight. The ability to think clearly escaped me then, and I scurried out to the balcony outside my bedroom. The Shin mansion stood in the quiet outskirts of Lyon, so no one could've heard me, especially not her.

But I yelled anyway, pulling my voice to the top of my lungs.

"Mother!" She was on the other side of the world, probably sleeping given the time, but I didn't care. "Mother! My dream is coming true! I told you, didn't I? You didn't have to worry at all! See?" Smiling, I held the paper up to the sky, believing for a second that she could actually see it. "It says they want me! I told you! I…"

And for reasons I didn't know at the time, I began to cry. It was steady and manageable at first, the tears coming down in slow streams. But then I was sobbing like I'd never sobbed before, my shoulders convulsing, my face reddening, my mouth opening wide as I gasped again and again. I sank onto the floor of the balcony as I moved the paper away from my face.

I was confused on why I was being like this. After all, the news this letter contained was what I'd wanted, what I'd spent sleepless nights thinking about. I'd successfully taken the first step to my dream, a dream that had sometimes been blocked from my view by the thick fog of doubt. But the sun had come with the arrival of the letter I held now. Its light was soft, gentle, and barely visible behind the sea of gray; still, it was there. And that sea of gray no longer seemed so endless.

So, with these thoughts, I deemed my crying an action of pure joy and relief, and decided to leave it at that. For the first time ever, I was able to stop myself. The tears ended as soon as they'd come. (You think I'm crazy, don't you? But I just didn't want to sit there crying and crying. When I was young, Cecilia taught me that crying never solved anything. So far in my life, this had rung true. To cry was to ultimately waste your time, and we all know that the time on Earth that we're entitled to can only be so long.)

I walked to my bathroom with the papers folded between my fingers. With one hand, I splashed water onto my face, and it helped to change it from the puffy red tomato it'd become back to its normal appearance. I covered the pinkness of my skin with a blanket of white powder. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, inhaling and exhaling in a measured manner.

After I made sure I was calm—or at least seemed like it—I exited my room and walked through the hall with a straight face. As I went down the marble steps of the staircase, one hand sliding down the railing, I smiled and broke into singsong. "Oh, Hana! Could you please whip up some congratulatory cheesecake for your sister?" (You must know that cheesecake is the best dessert in the entire world. It's the favored ambrosia of the goddesses because of its sweet, magical qualities. Needless to say, it's my favorite food. And Hana's versions happen to be très délicieux!)