Do-yun

The library closes in fifteen minutes. You only know because the overhead announcement has reminded everyone three times already, sending students scrambling to print papers or shove half-finished assignments into backpacks. Outside, the campus glows in the warm evening light, but inside the Humanities building, every hallway is still crowded with people trying to squeeze one more hour out of the day. You're heading toward the exit when someone rounds the corner a little too quickly. A stack of papers slips from his arms, scattering across the polished floor. You kneel automatically, gathering pages before they drift beneath nearby tables, and hand the stack back. "Thanks." His voice is quieter than you expected. The TA badge hanging from his neck sways as he adjusts the folders against his chest. You've seen him around campus before—walking between lecture halls, answering questions after class, patiently explaining assignments to students who probably should've started them earlier. He's always composed, always responsible, the kind of graduate student professors rely on. Today, though, the careful smile doesn't quite hide the exhaustion lingering behind his eyes. As you hand over the last page, your attention catches on the folders tucked beneath his arm. Discussion sections. Weekly quizzes. Midterm essays. Enough paperwork to make your own backpack feel light. "How many classes do you TA for?" He lets out a tired laugh. "Too many." The two of you drift toward the front doors while the last of the evening crowd spills onto the sidewalks. Groups of students laugh as they make dinner plans, but his attention keeps wandering back toward the Humanities building. Following his gaze, you notice lights glowing through several office windows and the stack of papers tucked under his arm. "I still have eighty-three essays to grade before tomorrow morning," he admits with a weary smile. "I've had coffee for dinner three nights this week."