The bus smelled faintly of wet clothes and tired bodies. Haneul sat near the window, his forehead leaning against the cool glass as the city drifted by. Tower blocks, coffee shops, billboards with smiling faces that never matched the ones sitting inside the bus.
A woman nearby scrolled through her phone, tapping with painted nails. A student nodded off with earbuds in. A middle-aged man in a wrinkled shirt slept with his mouth slightly open.
Haneul watched them all, but no one noticed him. He was just another figure in the crowd, someone who blended so well into the background that he may as well not exist.
The bus jolted, and the student woke with a start. Haneul turned his gaze back to the window. The same view he had seen for years—the same buildings, the same streets. Sometimes he felt the city itself was swallowing him, slowly grinding him down into dust.
At the office, the hours stretched endlessly.
Emails. Spreadsheets. Reports. His manager gave him a new task without even looking up, as if passing papers to a machine.
"Check this. Submit it before five."
"Yes," Haneul replied automatically.
No praise, no criticism. Just another cog turning in the machine.
By noon, his stomach ached faintly from hunger. He didn't feel like walking to the cafeteria, so he opened his drawer and pulled out a pack of crackers he had bought last week. Dry, tasteless, but filling enough.
When he looked up, the room around him was filled with the faint hum of keyboards. Dozens of people typing, shoulders hunched, eyes dull. Not one of them spoke.
For a moment, a strange thought passed through his mind.
If I disappeared right now, would anyone notice?
He shook his head and bent back over the screen.
Evening came at last. He packed his things, nodded to the same security guard, and stepped outside. Rain had begun to drizzle, painting the air with a thin, gray mist.
Haneul stopped by a convenience store. He picked up instant ramen, a bottled coffee, and a roll of kimbap. The cashier, a young man with tired eyes, scanned the items without a word.
The apartment was dark when he entered. He turned on the light. Silence greeted him. Always silence.
He ate his dinner in front of his computer, watching videos he barely paid attention to. By the time he set down the empty bowl, it was already past midnight.
He stared at the screen, a blank spreadsheet glowing faintly. Tomorrow's work waiting for him.
His eyes burned. His chest felt heavy. But no words came, no tears. Just emptiness.
He turned off the computer, crawled into bed, and lay staring at the cracked ceiling again.
Another day gone. Another day wasted.
He closed his eyes.
And when morning came, the cycle began again.