I am a 25-year-old American woman teaching at a private academy in Seoul. Like thousands of foreigners, I use my weekends to travel the country or go abroad. But for the last few weeks, instead of living the expat dream, I’m living near the epicenter of the coronavirus outbreak.

My life has changed drastically since the outbreak started. At first, it was just a story coming out of China that caused a little anxiety but did not affect my life. Four weeks later, I feel like I’m living in the end times. When the news first broke I wasn’t afraid, but things felt strange.

January 31

The government encouraged everyone to not leave their homes on the weekends and avoid crowded areas. I did not heed the warnings and set off on my 45 minute Sunday bus ride to church in Sinsa, a popular weekend hang out. I was the only person on the typically crowded bus.

February 3

My students taught me the proper way to secure a seal in my mask because they worry I won’t be okay without family in Seoul. Restaurants began posting signs that read “no Chinese.”

February 9

Within a week, the number cases began to rise. There were no masks to be found in Seoul. I asked my family in the U.S. to buy some and ship them to me, but there is now a worldwide shortage.

News reports in Seoul are apparently much different than the reports in the U.S. I ask my family if they are worried, but they don’t think it’s a big deal.

February 10

They start taking everyone’s temperature at my work as people enter the building. Everyone is required to wear a mask at all times. I still can’t find masks to purchase.

If a student sneezes in class, the others will look at me with fear in their eyes, “Do you think he has it?” They are young students and afraid.

February 17

The economy in South Korea began to decline. I wired money back to the U.S. before the local currency dropped and my transfer rate became weaker.

Restaurants in Seoul are largely empty amid the coronavirus outbreak.

February 21

The outbreak ramped up. Forty cases turned to 130. My students went from anxious to on-edge. Some stopped attending classes. We began wiping down the desks and door handles with bleach after every class. My boss gave me a formal document explaining what to do if I show symptoms, what I can and cannot say to the students and “guidance” on where I am allowed to go on the weekends.

I was on high alert, but not yet fearful as I felt authorities and my employer were taking the right steps. South Korea took bold preemptive efforts like sanitizing streets, buses, subways, and buildings and shutting down high traffic areas — surely this would get the cases under control

Then it all changed.

Once the Daegu outbreak began, a fear developed that South Korea could become the next Wuhan. No one is leaving their home without a mask, if they are even leaving at all. The number of cases of coronavirus increased by 15 fold in only 3 days.

Feb 24

The streets that were constantly full of traffic and pedestrians are now peppered with a few uneasy masked faces. Seoul looks like a ghost town. Waiting to walk across the street turned from me bustling and bumping alongside 50 other people to me and just a few others, all of us in masks, keeping a healthy distance from one another.

When I arrive at work, my temperature is taken before I may enter, and I’m told to hurry into my classroom. But no kids come to school. We close until further notice.

Streets in Seoul that are normally full of traffic and pedestrians are mostly empty now.

Feb 28

I sit at home waiting for any kind of news about whether my life will return to normal. The number of cases continues to climb and my boss calls to inform me that we are closed until March 9, following the regulations of the government about mass gatherings.

March 1

My church holds an online service as the public is encouraged to stay at home and avoid groups of people.

March 3

Stores post hand-written signs that read “masks sold out.”

The coronavirus is everywhere. It permeates my daily life. When I go to get a coffee, I see a banner strung between two apartment buildings outlining the proper hand washing techniques and the emergency contact number.

When I enter a bus I am met with hand sanitizer and a box of masks for the unlucky few like me, who don’t have any left. Giant yellow signs hang on the backs of seats with large black and red Hangul lettering that reads, “Report to 1339 if you show any of the novel coronavirus symptoms.”

When I step outside it feels like a zombie movie. I laugh about it and make jokes about “Train to Busan.” But I don’t laugh anymore. Restaurants are closed. The few people I do see have their faces covered and move intensity to off the streets. Lines surround major stores in the morning where everyone waits in hopes of getting masks, only to learn there are none.

Shoppers are scanned before entering stores and malls in Seoul.

Even traditional businesses are requiring people to work from home, a practice generally frowned upon in Korea’s commuter hubs. Office buildings, subway stations and malls have thermal imaging cameras at all major entrances and exits like a medical version of TSA.

Our phones sound an alarm almost every hour telling us of new reported cases or a new hot spot to avoid.

We don’t know what's going to happen, how bad it might get. Should I stay and hope life returns to normal soon? Will it get worse, and a travel ban will prevent me from returning to the U.S.?

The coronavirus is very real, and I am living with it.

Ashton Alayne Smalling is an expat from Texas working in Seoul. She wrote this column for The Dallas Morning News.