September 1st. In Ukraine, this isn't just the start of school; it's the Day of Knowledge.
It's a whole thing.
You're supposed to show up with flowers, wear your best shirt (or, if want, a vyshyvanka), and listen to the principal give a 40-minute speech about... honestly, I've never paid attention. It's a day of rituals.
And this one was my last.
I walked to school with a bouquet of asters that my mom had shoved into my hand, feeling like a total imposter. Every other kid on the street was buzzing with the "new year" energy—who was in their class, who got hot over the summer, who was dreading physics.
I was just wondering if my suitcase was over the weight limit.
"Motuzenko!" My homeroom teacher, Kateryna Ivanivna, beamed at me, her arms already full of flowers. "You came! We weren't sure if you'd already be... you know."
"Not 'til next week," I said, handing her the asters.
"Alex! Dude!" My classmate, Sasha, clapped me on the back. "So it's true? You're actually going to Korea? To become a K-pop star?"
I winced. "It's an arts high school, man. Not a trainee program."
"Same difference," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "When you're famous, remember me."
I was, I realized, no longer just "Alex." I was "The Guy Who's Leaving." I was an event. A piece of gossip. In our first lesson—Ukrainian Literature, of course—Kateryna Ivanivna made me stand up.
"Class," she announced, "as you know, our Oleksandr will be leaving us. He has won a very prestigious scholarship to study in Seoul, South Korea."
Thirty heads turned. I felt my neck go hot.
"We are all very proud of him, and we wish him... well... good luck. Oleksandr, maybe you want to say a few words?"
What was I supposed to say? "Have fun with the next 200 pages of «Kaidasheva family» while I'm eating barbecue in Seoul"?
"Uh," I said, mastering the art of global ambassadorship. "Thanks. I'll... miss you guys. Good luck with the exams."
It was lame. It was perfect. Everyone clapped politely.
The rest of the day was surreal. I sat in Physics, a class I'd normally be dreading, and just... listened. I listened to the thwack of the chalk on the old green board. I watched the dust motes dance in the sunlight coming through the tall windows. I'd spent six years in this room, trying to escape it. Now, I felt a weird, sudden ache at the thought of never seeing it again.
My notebook was open to a blank page. While the teacher explained vector quantities, I was practicing Hangul in the margins.
I wasn't, however, practicing useful phrases. My language app wasn't focused on "Where is the library?" or "May I be excused?"
No. My "pink glasses" were firmly on. My recently favorited phrases included:
Jeoneun euim-ageul mandeuleoyo. (I make music.)
Nuni cham yeppeoyo. (Your eyes are very pretty.)
Bamsae nolaebang-e gaja! (Let's go to karaoke all night!)
And, most importantly: Maekju-hago tteokbokki, juseyo. (Beer and spicy rice cakes, please.)
I was ready. I was going to be the charismatic, guitar-playing foreigner. I was going to find a band, play gigs in Hongdae, and have the ultimate main-character experience. This year wasn't about studying. It was a vacation. A break.
A girl in the front row, Olena, turned around and passed me a note. I unfolded it.
Is it true you have to do military service there?
My smile faltered. I looked at the vector diagram on the board.
I have no idea, I wrote back. I hope not.