The alarm rang again.
Kim Haneul opened his eyes, and for a moment he could not tell if it was yesterday or today. The same cracked ceiling, the same heavy breath in his chest. The sameness itself felt like a dream he could not wake from.
He rose, dressed, and left for work.
The bus was late that morning. Packed tighter than usual, bodies pressed together. Someone's backpack dug into his side, but when he shifted slightly, the man gave him a sharp look as if he were the one at fault. Haneul lowered his gaze and said nothing.
At the office, a small mistake found him.
He had typed one number wrong in a long column of figures. Barely noticeable, but it reached his manager's desk before he corrected it.
The manager called him over. Not loud, not angry—just cold.
"Do it properly. I don't have time to check your work twice."
The words were simple, but they cut deeper than he expected. His colleagues glanced over, then quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. No one said anything. No one ever did.
Haneul bowed slightly.
"Yes. I'll fix it."
He returned to his desk, shoulders heavy. His ears burned faintly with shame, though the mistake was so small. He tried to work more carefully, but his hands felt clumsy on the keyboard.
When lunchtime came, he stood to go out for air. But as he walked toward the door, he overheard two colleagues speaking softly.
"Why does he always eat alone?" one said.
"Probably has no friends," the other replied with a small laugh.
The words weren't cruel, not really. Just careless. But they echoed in his chest like stones dropped into a well.
That evening, the rain was heavier still. His shoes were soaked through by the time he reached his apartment. He took them off and left them by the door, wet and dripping.
Inside, silence greeted him again.
He boiled water for ramen. The kettle hissed loudly, filling the empty space with steam. He ate standing by the counter, too tired to even sit at his desk.
When he finished, he washed the bowl and placed it neatly on the drying rack. One bowl, one pair of chopsticks. Always one.
The apartment was too quiet. He turned on the television for noise, but the voices sounded hollow. He turned it off again.
He sat at the desk, staring at the empty chair across from him. For a strange moment, he imagined someone sitting there—someone who would talk to him, laugh with him, scold him for eating ramen again.
But there was no one.
Just silence, and the crack on the ceiling waiting for him when he lay down.
He thought of the words from earlier—probably has no friends.
He whispered into the darkness, "Maybe they're right."
The words vanished into the air. No one heard them. No one answered.
And the cycle prepared to begin again.