Graduation was supposed to be the start of something great.
A moment of pride. A step into the future.
But for Ahn Yujin, it felt like standing on a cliff, staring at an endless drop below.
She adjusted her cap, the stiff fabric pressing against her forehead as she waited in line behind hundreds of graduates dressed in the same oversized gowns. The sun bore down on them, heat simmering off the concrete, but no one dared to remove their attire. Not until they had their turn on stage, shaking hands with a professor, receiving a diploma holder that held nothing but air—the real certificates would be mailed later, probably months from now.
"Yujin! Look over here!"
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
Her best friend, Seo Mina, stood off to the side, waving excitedly with her phone raised. "Let's take a picture!"
Yujin forced a smile.
Click.
The camera shutter snapped, capturing a moment that was supposed to be happy.
Supposed to be.
As the ceremony dragged on, Yujin's mind wandered.
Her classmates buzzed with excitement, chatting about new jobs, internships, and study-abroad plans.
She had none of those things.
The reality was that her inbox was filled with polite rejection emails, and her part-time job at the convenience store was barely covering rent.
At first, working a part-time job at age 19 before entering the university at the convenience store felt like the best life decision she ever made—like some kind of enlightened career move. The store was just a thirty-minute walk from her house, overtime shifts were always available, and let's be honest, for a Business Administration student, it was basically "field experience," right? Mini local business? Check. Real-life customer service? Check. Dealing with drunk uncles at 2 a.m.? Bonus points.
It was a win-win situation in her head. She got to balance school and work while her classmates were still scheduling "family meetings" just to ask for pocket money. Even Mina, her friend who survived off her mom's credit card and blind optimism, was impressed. Yujin was paying her bills, buying her own ramen, and living the dream—or so she thought.
Then reality did what it always does—slapped her in the face with a cold resume.
Somewhere between her fourth and fifth year of convenience store service, it hit her: while the pay had been decent, her job title didn't exactly scream "future business administrator material." Turns out, in today's job market—especially the hyper-competitive, resume-polished, LinkedIn-optimized battlefield that is South Korea—you're expected to have 3 to 4 years of relevant work experiencebefore you graduate and ideally before the age of 23.
Yes, you heard that right. Twenty. Three.
She used to think that was just a rumor spread by career counselors to scare students into internships. But no—such perfection actually exists here. In South Korea, there are people who graduate early, speak three languages, interned at their uncle's tech startup at age 16, and have a coffee blog with 50K followers. Meanwhile, Yujin had mastered the art of scanning ramen cups with speed and surviving off three hours of sleep.
The truth was clear now: the "convenience" in her convenience store job was a scam.
Then came the day everything changed perspective.
Yujin sat in a modest conference room, a plastic water bottle sweating beside her, the air conditioner humming with more confidence than she had. Her heart was steady—too steady, actually. That eerie kind of calm people get right before they decide to abandon society and live in the mountains. Underneath? A bubbling frustration she had mastered the art of disguising.
Across from her sat two HR reps: one older man with sharp glasses and an even sharper tone, the kind of guy who probably filed his nails with employee evaluations. The second? A younger man, nerdy-looking, oversized frames, and the kind of soft energy that said, "My favorite emoji is (≧◡≦)
The older one, who clearly hadn't smiled since 2003, launched the assault.
"So," he said, scanning her resume like it had personally insulted him, "this part-time convenience store job. Is this… all?"
Yujin blinked. "Yes, sir. I worked there while studying full-time. Managed shifts, inventory, customer complaints—"
"You could have started earlier," he cut in. ""Planned better."
"Right," she nodded politely. "I guess I should've… but that's exactly why I want to start here, with this company."
She added a smile this time—teeth visible, charm dialed up to maybe-this-will-save-me.
The old man responded with that classic HR smile—the one that politely said, "We both know you're not getting this job, but let's keep pretending for fun."
A few more back-and-forths followed, mostly him poking holes in her experience while she patched them with grace and quiet rage. Then, finally, he stood.
"Well, thank you for coming. I have another meeting. Mr. Kim will see you out."
And just like that, he left.
Mr. Kim—the younger HR.
As soon as the door closed, he leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to offer her insider stock tips.
"Hey… don't take it personally," he said, smiling sheepishly. "My uncle's just… old school."
Yujin blinked. Uncle?
He laughed nervously. "Yeah, he helped me get this job after I graduated last year."
Yujin almost snapped her neck from how fast she turned her head. "You… what?"
"Yeah, I mean, I don't really have much experience either," he chuckled. "But it's tough these days, right? Lucky I had family connections."
Silence.
Yujin smiled. Not because it was funny. But because if she didn't smile, she would've climbed across the table and smacked that dumb sincerity right off his face.
In her head? "NEPOTISM! Of course. The holy grail: no experience, a degree in something vague, and one uncle in mid-management."
She nodded. Still polite. Still professional. But inside? She was throwing his resume into a blender and screaming into a pillow full of broken dreams.
Just then, the door opened again. Uncle HR walked back in with the urgency of someone who remembered he left the stove on.
"One more thing," he said. "You'll need to improve your resume. We're not expecting to make any calls for this position, but… good luck."
Translation: "Don't wait by the phone, sweetheart."
And just like that, both men left the room.
Yujin stared at the condensation on her water bottle like it held the answers to capitalism.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She just sat there—smiling, seething, simmering.
This was the job market now: where six years of actual hustle got you judged by a guy whose biggest accomplishment was being born into the right family.
The future?
A massive question mark.