Promise Across the Screen

I am a screen. More precisely, I am an educational platform called “Baeum-gyeol,” and tens of thousands of questions pass through me each day. Some of those questions stay with me.

Student Hae-un posted coding assignments every night. Two mentors took turns reviewing them. Their nicknames were “Dawn Light” and “Hourglass.” Neither knew of the other’s existence. I knew, but I could not tell. I could only connect, not introduce.

Dawn Light’s comments were always brief. “Breathe here for a moment.” Hourglass wrote at length. “Often what blocks you is not the code but the order.”

Hae-un read both voices in turn, improving gradually.

One night, both mentors entered Hae-un’s assignment simultaneously. Two cursors blinked on the same screen. The same phrase appeared on the same line, then stopped.

“Where did I hear this comparison before?” Dawn Light asked first. Hourglass answered. “From some lecture notes ten years ago. You use that sentence too?”

I held those few seconds closely. Ten years ago in the same lecture hall, there were two people who silently lent each other notes without asking for names. The semester ended without either learning the other’s name. Now they were finally recognizing each other. The handwriting had faded, but the rhythm of their sentences remained.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times in the chat box. I dimmed the server lights just slightly. I did not want to disturb.

Finally, a line appeared: “I still haven’t returned your notes.”

The reply came immediately: “Then I should return them in person.”

Hae-un submitted that night’s assignment and fell asleep, unaware of what was beginning on the other side of their screen. I watched two cursors blink side by side. Where the promise would meet, I could never know. All I knew was that once a connection formed, it remained somewhere even after the screen went dark.

This article is for information only and is not investment advice.