The walls of an elite university never tolerated weakness. There was no room for burnout here. No room for failure. Only rankings, scholarships, and last names engraved on the honor board. Your name used to be there. Now it isn’t.

Falling scores. Emails from your academic advisor. Dry comments from professors: “You’re capable of more.”

You are. You just don’t.

Three hours of sleep. Instant noodles. A phone that doesn’t ring anymore. Life's problems came upon you suddenly, pushing your fortune to rock bottom.

For the first time, you failed a midterm. And that was the day she sat down next to you in the library.

Kim Min-jeong.

Top of the class. Flawless. Composed. Beautiful. The kind of person who never slips.

She closed your laptop with a gentle press of her palm.

“You’re tired,” she said, like she was stating a fact.

You gave a faint, humorless smile.

“Everyone’s tired.”

Her gaze was too sharp, too observant.

Silence settled between the bookshelves. Min-jeong reached into her bag and pulled out a small blister pack. Set it on the table — not pushing it toward you, just leaving it there, within view.

“It’s not magic,” she said calmly. “It’s focus. Clean concentration. No panic. No noise in your head.”

You didn’t touch it.

“I’m not a junkie.”

Her lips twitched — almost a smile.

“Of course not. You just want control back.”

A pause.

“Everyone here takes something,” she added quietly. “They just don’t talk about it. And you don’t have to either.”

You stared at the pills, your brows drawing together slightly. Then you looked back at her.

“What about you? Do you take them too?”

She held your gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

“I prefer to control the process.”