"Tadaima... I'm home."
Click.
Silence.
...Sigh.
With one hand still resting on the doorknob, I stood there for a moment, letting out a breath that felt like it had been building up since morning. In the other hand, I carried a lukewarm convenience store bento and a can of cheap beer—my usual companions for days.
Slipping off my shoes at the genkan, I trudged inside.
The room, as always, greeted me with stillness. No sound of a TV. No hum of conversation. Just me, four walls, and the faint buzz of the refrigerator.
"Ten years... and I still can't get used to this silence."
I tossed the bento onto the low table, cracked open the beer, and sat down with a thud that echoed a little too loudly in the empty room.
"Guess I'll kill some time with manga or a light novel after dinner..."
That's all my evenings amounted to now. That, and staring at the ceiling wondering where everything went wrong.
I never got into college. My grades were never more than average. Actually, calling them "average" might be generous. With a résumé like mine, dreaming of a stable job was just that—dreaming.
So I drifted. Worked soul-crushing hours at a black company for a while, got chewed up and spat out, then floated from part-time job to part-time job, clinging to whatever paid just enough to scrape by.
I wasn't born poor. Just average. Average family, average life. During my school years, I wasted time chasing things that never really mattered. Girls. Friends. Dreams of success that I never worked toward.
Looking back, maybe I was waiting for something. Some sign. Some miracle.
"If I could've just known... or chosen a talent—anything at all—it might have been different."
I always believed every person was born with at least one talent. Something hidden deep inside. Most just never discover it. That's the real tragedy of life.
Hard work is important, sure. But talent? That's the spark that makes the fire burn.
Take Messi, for example. There are countless players in the world—some who probably work just as hard, maybe even harder. And yet… he's Messi. A legend.
Why?
Because he found his talent. He touched the ball, and the world changed.
"But what if he never kicked a ball in his life? What would he have been then? A tired office worker? A doctor? Some nameless cog in the machine?"
That's what keeps me up sometimes.
What if I had missed my moment without even knowing it? Or worse—what if I never had one to begin with?
---
After microwaving the bento and poking aimlessly at the soggy karaage with disposable chopsticks, I found myself scrolling through my phone, not really looking at anything.
YouTube. News. Manga app. Back to YouTube.
Same cycle, same meaninglessness.
Eventually, my fingers paused over a thumbnail—a live performance clip from some indie band. The video started playing before I even realized I tapped it. The guitarist stood under colored lights, face half-hidden by his messy hair, strumming something raw and real. The kind of sound that didn't need words to cut through your chest.
My hand froze halfway to my mouth.
That sound… it stirred something. Not in the ears. In the gut. In the heart. Something I'd stuffed deep down years ago.
"Music…"
Yeah. I used to love that.
No, not just love—I lived for it.
Back in middle school, I remember hearing this one song on the radio—some J-Rock ballad that felt like it had been written just for me. I didn't even know what genre it was back then. All I knew was that it made my skin tingle and my chest ache in the best way.
I started learning guitar soon after. Watched videos. Printed tabs. Played until my fingers blistered. I even saved up for a second-hand electric—heavy, beat-up, missing two strings, but it was mine.
But I never played in front of anyone.
Not once.
Even when some of my classmates and friends were forming garage bands, I always had some excuse ready.
"I'm not good enough."
"It's not the right time."
"What if I mess up and everyone laughs?"
I always said I'd join the next one. Maybe next month. Next year. After I've practiced more. After I get better.
But next never came.
Fear of failure. Fear of standing out. Fear that the thing I loved most would betray me if I actually gave it a real shot.
So I didn't.
"I'm just being realistic," I told myself.
But deep down I knew it was just cowardice.
Eventually, the guitar got shoved into the closet. Then buried under clothes. Then sold. I told myself I didn't need it anymore. That music was just a phase.
But I still hum melodies under my breath when I think no one's listening. Still tap rhythms on my thighs while waiting at traffic lights. Still feel something twist in my chest when I hear a song that resonates just a little too much.
Even now... after ten years of drifting through life like a ghost, that part of me never really died.
It just got quiet.
Like this apartment.
Like me.
"...If only I had just tried once."
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
But what's the point of thinking about it now? I'm nearly thirty. No savings. No direction. No talent—or maybe just no courage to prove it.
Maybe in another life...
No. That's just fantasy.
I stared at the ceiling again, beer halfway gone.
And yet...
That sound—the one from the video—was still echoing in my head.
---
"Well… No point dwelling on the past. Life's already heavy enough without carrying old regrets."
I leaned back into the squeaky futon, the overhead bulb casting a dim halo against the cracked ceiling. The fan buzzed overhead, barely holding back the heat.
"I wonder how little sis is doing."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips.
"She's got real talent, after all. Probably off sketching some insane fantasy world or doodling VTuber commissions in her room again. At least she still has Mom and Dad..."
That smile didn't last long.
"Tch... Even thinking about them still stings."
The silence in this one-room apartment had gotten cozy with the guilt.
After that fight, after what I said…
Yeah, I probably don't deserve to be called their son anymore.
"So much for being the 'eldest son'—can't even keep a family together."
What a joke.
I rolled over, pulling the thin blanket over my head.
"Better sleep… Got newspaper deliveries at 4 again. Need to be up before even the sun starts caring."
But I didn't reach for the light.
Instead, my fingers reached for the phone.
Just one episode. One episode to rinse the thoughts out. That's it.
And that one episode changed to one season pretty seamlessly by the time I became aware of time, it was 1 AM already.
"…I'm screwed."
The phone slid from my fingers onto the mattress.
I closed my eyes and got ready to repeat the same monotonous and empty routine again tomorrow.