Quiet Notes by StayMirae

Why Korean Mothers Spend Entire Days Waiting in Their Cars Recently, I watched a short video that surprised many people. A well-known Korean actress was seen spending hours inside her car — eating simple meals, checking her phone, and waiting. Waiting for her daughter to finish class. All day. Many international viewers reacted with confusion. “Why doesn’t she hire a driver?” “Why wait that long?” “Isn’t that extreme?” But in Korea, the more surprising question is this: Why is anyone surprised? The Parking Lot Outside the Hagwon In South Korea, especially in large cities, it is common to see rows of cars parked outside private academies — known as hagwons . Inside those buildings, children study math, English, coding, music, debate. Outside, parents wait. Sometimes for one hour. Sometimes for three. Sometimes the entire evening. The cars become temporary offices. Lunchrooms. Resting spaces. Command centers. It is not unusual to see mothers eating kimbap in the driver’s seat, la...

Why Are So Many Elderly Koreans Still Working? If you visit South Korea, you might notice something unusual. You’ll see men in their seventies delivering packages. Women in their eighties sorting vegetables at markets. Grandfathers collecting cardboard late at night. And you may wonder: “Isn’t retirement supposed to be rest?” In many Western countries, retirement means travel, hobbies, and slowing down. In Korea, for many elderly people, retirement simply means… another kind of work. But this isn’t about obsession with productivity. It’s about history. A Generation Born Into Ruins South Korea was devastated after the Korean War (1950–1953). Entire cities were destroyed. Poverty was widespread. For the generation born around that time, survival was not guaranteed. Work wasn’t a lifestyle choice. It was a necessity. Many families had five or six children. Why? Because children were the only form of social security. There were no strong pension systems. No stable retire...

  Love Does Not Disappear All at Once Love does not end when a door closes. It does not stop at a period. It lingers. Like a faint scent left in a room after someone has gone, invisible — yet unmistakable. What remains is not weakness. It is not naïve longing. It is the quiet refusal to believe that what we once felt was merely a passing moment. And so the question returns, softer each time: Can what remains ever come back? Perhaps. But what returns is never the same. Time does not kill love. It reveals it. It separates what was real from what was born of fear. When love’s residue comes back, it does not arrive loudly. It comes as a thought. As an unexplained tremor. As the strange certainty that the heart still remembers the way. But residue alone cannot rebuild a relationship. Longing can revive emotion, yet without growth, it only repeats the same wound. Often, we do not miss the person. We miss who we were when we loved them. The version of ourselves that shone...

  Between Chaos and Consciousness An Attempt to Understand Ourselves Sometimes, I don’t feel like one person. I feel like fragments. There is the strong one — the one who learned how to endure. There is the fragile one — the one who still flinches at certain tones of voice. There is the dreamer — who quietly folded her dreams and placed them in a drawer. And then there is the observer — the conscious self who watches them all, trying to make sense of the noise. I remember a night when I smiled at everyone in the room, yet felt completely absent from myself. It was as if the “functioning” part of me had taken over, while the rest stood somewhere in the dark. Psychologically, this is not weakness. It is adaptation. When the mind cannot hold everything at once, it divides — not to break, but to survive. The real question is not, “Can these fragments ever come together?” The deeper question is this: Are we ready to face each piece without shame? Integration ...

On a Night Like This Tonight, the light in the sky felt strangely sad. The stars were there, shining, yet their brightness only made the silence deeper. All day long, my heart felt swollen. Each time tears rose to my throat, I had to lift my head as if nothing was wrong. I smiled when it was expected. I nodded when words required it. And that is how the day passed. When I look back, I realize how far I have come. Too far to return. Time has already built a long bridge between what was and what is. Even knowing that we might meet again at a single point someday, I kept standing where I was, pretending not to know. As the stars grew clearer and the lights outside faded one by one, I found myself coming back here. Because this is my only place to rest. Not every silence is empty. Some are simply too full to speak. Tonight, my room felt unusually large. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture — nothing had changed. But the absence of another presence made the space feel wide...

  The Year I Was Sent to Soulia I watched my own body from the corner of the room. My mother was holding my face, whispering my name. My father stood by the window, staring into the rain as if it could answer him. Somewhere, a bell rang. When I turned around, a black cat was waiting for me. “You died,” it said calmly. “Heart failure.” Its voice carried no sorrow, no judgment. Just fact. “I am your guide. You are to be judged.” The cat led me to a door that hadn’t existed before. When it opened, the world folded inward. Time twisted like smoke. My life replayed itself in fragments—laughter, cruelty, missed chances, small kindnesses I barely remembered. Then everything went still. The place beyond the door was neither heaven nor hell. The ceiling was hidden behind white mist. There was no visible light source, yet a faint crimson glow filled the air. A single chair stood in the center. I sat. A figure entered—faceless, silent, immense. “You are not ready,” it said. “You will spend ...

  Your Season Has Not Come Yet Not every flower blooms in spring. I’ve always known that. But when my turn doesn’t arrive, my heart grows restless for no clear reason. Lately, there have been many days like this. A day clearly passes, yet I can’t quite remember what I did with it. I go to work, eat a meal, come home, turn on the light, switch on the TV for no reason— and turn it off again. The world seems to be moving ahead, while I feel as if I’m standing still. As though days in which nothing happens are quietly piling up. But when I think about it more carefully, maybe I’m not standing still after all. Maybe it just looks that way— as if nothing is happening. They say trees do not appear to grow in winter, but that is when their roots deepen. Out of sight, in a direction where no one applauds. These days, I feel like I might be passing through that season. Quiet on the outside, speaking less than before, tired without a clear reason. Still, sometimes the tho...

  The Forgotten Path, and the Self I Met Again There are moments in life when we feel lost. Not because we took the wrong road, but because we have been walking the same one for too long. I used to think that when a path disappears from our lives, it means it no longer matters. Now I know that some paths don’t disappear — they wait. When I was a child, I often walked through a small park near my home with my parents. Every corner felt familiar. Every turn felt safe. I didn’t know then that those simple walks were quietly becoming part of who I was. As years passed, life grew faster. My steps became automatic. Home to work. Work to home. The park faded into something I no longer remembered needing. One afternoon, by chance, I returned there. The place felt smaller than I remembered. But the air was the same. Leaves rustled above me. The bench where I once sat was still there. And suddenly, memories I hadn’t invited came rushing back. I wasn’t just remembering ...

  I Shine Because You Are Close They are far away— and yet, somehow, that distance makes them clearer. No one has to call their name for them to be seen. The sky simply holds them, and they shine without hesitation. And me? I might be closer to you than any star, yet I feel… strangely harder to notice. I learned something painful through loving you: closeness doesn’t always mean visibility. A star never asks, “Can you see me?” “Do I matter to you?” It doesn’t bargain with the sky. It doesn’t plead for recognition. It simply shines— in the only way it knows how. Not because it is certain someone will be reached by its light, but because that is what it was born to do. And I think that’s what love looks like at its purest: not proof… but devotion. I know the truth. There is distance between us— a distance that cannot be crossed in a single breath, no matter how desperately my heart runs toward you. And still, I cannot stop. Even knowing I may never reach ...

  Love Doesn’t Disappear All at Once The Residue Left Behind A door closes, a conversation stops, a chapter seems finished— yet something remains. Not the person. Not the future you imagined. But the residue. A scent in an empty room. A familiar song that hits too hard. A memory that returns without permission. And no— this residue isn’t weakness. It’s the heart refusing to believe that what you felt was nothing. People ask, “Can love return if it leaves residue?” Maybe. But if it does, it won’t come back as the same love. It won’t demand. It won’t beg. It won’t promise. It will return quietly— as a thought, as a tremble, as the strange feeling that your heart still remembers the way. But residue alone cannot rebuild a relationship. Residue can revive emotions, but healing requires more: new awareness, a calmer mind, and the strength to love without fear. Because sometimes, we don’t miss the person. We miss the version of ourselves who loved without hesitation....