The morning came heavy, like a stone pressing against his chest.
Kim Haneul walked the familiar road to the bus stop. His steps felt slower than usual, each one heavier, as though his body already knew where the day would lead.
The city bustled around him—cars honking, vendors shouting, schoolchildren rushing—but all of it seemed far away, muffled, as though he were moving inside a glass cage.
By the time he left the office that evening, the sun was already setting. The air smelled of fried food and damp pavement. People filled the sidewalks, couples walking hand-in-hand, groups of friends laughing together. Their voices echoed like cruel reminders.
He walked alone, as always.
And then—he saw her.
Across the street, in front of a café glowing with warm yellow light, stood someone he once knew.
Jiyeon.
The only woman he had ever cared for, though she had never truly been his. Back in university, she had smiled at him, spoken kindly, shared notes with him when he was late. For years, he had carried those small memories like fragile treasures. She was the only proof, he once thought, that he had been seen.
And there she was now—laughing. Her hand was tucked into the arm of another man. His suit was sharp, his smile confident. The two of them looked bright, alive, as if the world itself bent to their joy.
Haneul stopped walking.
His heart beat once, then seemed to fall silent.
They passed so close he could hear her voice, light and soft.
"Don't work too hard, you'll make yourself sick," she teased, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The man laughed, and the sound blended with hers.
She looked up at him with warmth in her eyes—the same warmth Haneul had once imagined was meant for him.
And then, they disappeared into the café together, the door closing behind them with a soft chime.
Haneul remained frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the glass door.
For years, he had told himself that he was fine. That being average, being invisible, being gray—was still living. But in that instant, he understood something far worse.
He had not lived at all.
No one remembered him. No one needed him. Even the one face he had cherished had walked past him as if he were a stranger in the crowd.
The weight inside his chest grew unbearable. His knees trembled. His vision blurred with unshed tears.
And for the first time, he thought death might not be a thief, but a mercy.
The traffic light turned green. He stepped forward into the crosswalk, his eyes still fixed on the glowing café window where warmth and laughter lived without him.
The roar of an engine came suddenly. Headlights blazed. A truck hurtled forward, far too fast.
He turned his head at the last moment. The world slowed—the rush of wind, the blinding light, the sound of brakes screaming against wet asphalt.
His lips parted, but no words came. Only a single thought, quiet and strange:
Maybe this is the first time my life means something… if only to end it.
And then, silence.
Darkness swallowed him whole.