The next day, the rain had cleared, but the sky was still heavy with clouds.
Kim Haneul arrived at work earlier than usual. He wanted to avoid mistakes, to show he could be reliable. He placed the reports neatly on his manager's desk and waited.
The manager glanced through them quickly, then set them down with a sigh.
"You're consistent, Kim," he said. "Consistent, but… average. Never better, never worse. Just… safe. People like you never rise, you know that?"
The words were said almost casually, as if they were not meant to wound. But they sank into Haneul's chest like a knife.
Average. Just safe. Never rise.
The rest of the day blurred. He worked in silence, hearing those words over and over.
When evening came, he left the office later than usual. His colleagues were gathered near the entrance, laughing together, planning dinner. He paused, just for a moment, and then forced himself to walk past them.
No one called out to him.
On the way home, he stopped by a café. He had once liked the warm smell of roasted beans, the faint chatter of voices. Today, he thought he might sit for a while, just to be among people.
But when he reached for his wallet, he realized with a shock that his card wasn't there. He had left it at home.
"Sorry," he murmured to the cashier, stepping aside. The young couple behind him chuckled quietly, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He left without looking back.
The streets were bright with neon, but he felt swallowed by the shadows between them.
When he reached his apartment, he opened the door to silence again. He placed his wet jacket on the chair, sat on the edge of his bed, and stared at the cracked ceiling.
That was when his phone buzzed. A message.
From his mother.
"Your cousin got promoted again. He bought a new car. We're all so proud of him. You should try harder, Haneul."
His throat tightened. His hand trembled around the phone.
He wanted to reply, to say I'm trying. I really am.
But the words refused to come.
Instead, he set the phone down and covered his face with both hands. For the first time in years, a sound escaped him. A broken laugh, thin and bitter.
Average. Just safe. Never rise.
He realized then that he had no one to talk to. No one who would listen. Not family. Not colleagues. Not friends—because he had none.
And in that moment, something inside him cracked. Not loudly, not visibly. Just a quiet breaking, like glass beneath a heavy weight.
For the first time, he thought—
Maybe it would be better if tomorrow never came.
He lay back down, staring at the crack in the ceiling. This time it no longer looked like a mark on plaster. It looked like the split inside his own heart.