The alarm went off again.
Kim Haneul opened his eyes, staring at the same cracked ceiling. For a moment, he wondered if he had ever slept at all. His body ached with a dull fatigue that felt permanent, as if it had seeped into his bones.
He turned off the alarm and sat up. His throat was dry. He poured water into a chipped mug, drank it, and set it back down on the table. The mug left a small ring of moisture on the wood.
Breakfast was two pieces of toast, eaten without butter. He chewed slowly, forcing the dry bread down. The silence of the apartment pressed against his ears.
When he stepped outside, the sky was overcast, a blanket of gray clouds hiding the morning sun. The street smelled faintly of exhaust.
On the bus, the seats were crowded again. Different faces, but the same expressions—blank, weary, resigned. Haneul stood holding the metal bar, swaying gently with the movement of the bus.
His phone buzzed. A message. He unlocked it, half-expecting something important.
It was from his mother.
"Eat well. Don't overwork. Come visit when you can."
He typed a reply— "Yes. I will."
Then put the phone back in his pocket. He hadn't visited in months. Somehow, the thought of making the trip always felt too heavy.
At work, the day stretched on like a dull echo of yesterday. The same reports. The same meetings. His manager's instructions blending into one another until they lost all meaning.
At lunch, his colleagues went out together, laughing faintly as they left. No one asked him to join. He didn't ask either. He opened his drawer again and ate another pack of crackers, staring at the wall as if it might answer something.
When he looked up, the office was filled with movement. People walking, talking, typing. Yet to him, it all felt like silence.
He felt invisible.
By the time the clock struck six, his eyes were sore from staring at the monitor. He packed up his things and left.
Outside, it was raining harder now. He forgot his umbrella, so the drizzle soaked through his suit. The neon lights blurred into streaks across the wet pavement.
At the convenience store, he picked up the same instant ramen, another bottle of coffee, another roll of kimbap. The cashier scanned the items without lifting his eyes.
Back at his apartment, Haneul placed the food on his desk and ate slowly. The ramen was salty, the kimbap stale. He chewed without tasting, swallowed without caring.
When he finished, he opened his laptop. The screen glowed in the darkness, spreadsheets waiting for him. He stared at them until the numbers seemed to blur.
For a long time, he didn't move. His hands lay flat on the desk. His mind was blank.
Is this it?
The question came quietly, almost like a whisper from somewhere deep inside.
He thought about the years behind him, and the years ahead. The same mornings, the same buses, the same cracked ceiling, the same tasteless dinners.
Is this all my life will ever be?
The thought lingered, heavy and suffocating.
Eventually, he shut the laptop and crawled into bed. The crack on the ceiling stared back at him, sharp and silent in the dim light.
He closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would come. And tomorrow would be the same.