Morning sunlight spilled through the cracked blinds of Ha Jun's room, faint and delicate, as if it were afraid to disturb the silence living inside the small space. Dust floated in the beams of light like drifting snowflakes, slow and unhurried, peaceful in a way that Ha Jun's mind never was. His alarm had already rung three times. He had silenced it three times. He lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling above him. It was the same ceiling he had stared at last night when sleep refused to come. The same ceiling he had stared at two nights ago when a panic attack ripped through him like an unexpected winter storm. The same ceiling that had watched over him during countless nights where exhaustion lived in his bones and fear lived in his heartbeat.
He blinked slowly.
His chest felt heavy, as if something invisible sat on it.
His head felt numb.
His limbs felt distant.
But he breathed.
That was something.
He turned his face toward the window. The sunlight warmed his cheek. It did not warm the coldness inside him, but it tried. The morning breeze pushed the curtain slightly, making soft waves in the fabric.
"Another day," he whispered.
His voice was dry.
Barely there.
Yet it sounded too loud in the quiet room.
He sat up slowly, feeling the brief dizziness spread behind his eyes. He pressed a hand to his forehead and inhaled deeply until the world steadied.
He had gotten two hours of sleep. Maybe less.
He stopped keeping track a long time ago.
His phone vibrated on his bedside table. A text message from his younger sister Da On appeared on the screen.
Oppa, can you walk me to the bus stop today? I have a test. I'm nervous.
Ha Jun stared at the message for a long moment, then allowed a small smile to form on his lips. A practiced smile. A smile that knew its role well.
Sure, I'll be ready. Eat breakfast. I'll meet you downstairs.
He typed quickly, fingers moving almost automatically.
The dizziness returned for a moment when he stood up, but he forced his feet to move toward the bathroom.
When he looked at himself in the mirror, he did not look twenty one.
He looked tired.
He looked older.
He looked like someone who had been fighting a war no one else could see.
But then, like always, he changed his expression.
His lips curled upward.
His eyes softened.
His brows lifted slightly.
A perfect, warm, harmless smile.
The kind of smile that made others think he was fine.
The kind of smile that kept people from asking too many questions.
The kind of smile that hid the trembling inside his chest.
He splashed cold water on his face, brushed his hair back, and forced a gentle glow into his features.
He had learned long ago that if he looked okay, people would believe he was okay.
And today, like every day, he needed people to believe it.
He walked downstairs quietly. His parents were already in the kitchen. His mother was frying eggs, humming softly to herself. His father sat at the table reading the newspaper, his glasses slightly crooked on his tired face.
Their house was small but filled with memories. Photographs lined the wall: birthdays, family trips, school events. One picture stood out more than the others. A family portrait with all four children.
Three sisters and one brother.
Da On at seven.
Ha Eun at fifteen.
Ha Jun at seventeen.
And So Mi at twelve.
He lingered at the picture for a heartbeat too long. His mother noticed.
"You're up early," she said warmly.
He pulled his gaze away from the picture and smiled.
"Morning, Eomma."
"You look pale," she replied, narrowing her eyes with concern. "Did you sleep?"
"Yes," he lied with ease. "A bit."
"Eat something before you go."
He nodded, though he already knew he would not eat. His stomach had been rejecting food for weeks now. Anxiety wrapped around his appetite like a cold rope.
His father looked up from the newspaper.
"You're working late tonight?"
"Maybe. Depends on the shift," Ha Jun answered with another smile.
His father sighed softly, guilt flickering across his expression.
"I wish you didn't have to work so much."
"I'm fine," Ha Jun said gently.
Another lie.
He walked toward the door where Da On stood tying her shoelaces, her backpack almost bigger than her.
"Oppa!" she beamed.
Her smile was innocent. Pure. Unaware of the darkness he shielded her from.
He reached out and patted her head.
"Ready for the test?" he asked.
"Not really," she admitted. "But if you walk me, I'll feel less scared."
Their mother watched them from the kitchen doorway, an emotion somewhere between love and worry softening her eyes.
As they stepped outside, the crisp morning air greeted them. The street smelled faintly of fresh bread from the bakery nearby. Birds chirped in the pine tree across the road.
"Oppa, can you check my homework later?" Da On asked.
"Of course," he said. "Bring it to my room when you get home."
She nodded happily, skipping a little as she walked.
Ha Jun watched her with a soft, protective expression.
She deserved a childhood untouched by grief.
For a while, the walk was quiet. Peaceful.
Too peaceful for the storm inside his chest.
After a moment, Da On looked up at him.
"Oppa, are you happy?"
The question struck him unexpectedly.
He smiled. Warm. Gentle. Convincing.
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
Da On nodded as if satisfied, though something in her eyes said she was not entirely convinced.
Before he could say more, a sudden sharp pain pulsed in his side.
He gripped his jacket tightly, hiding the wince.
His medical condition had been acting up again. The pain came unpredictably, like lightning from a clear sky.
But Da On did not notice.
When they reached the bus stop, she hugged him tightly.
"Wish me luck!"
"You don't need luck," he said softly. "You're smart, Da On."
She grinned and ran toward the bus as it approached. Ha Jun stood there until the bus disappeared down the street. Only then did his smile fade.
His phone buzzed again.
A number he recognized.
His part time job.
He dreaded answering because he already knew what they would say.
"Ha Jun, can you cover tonight's shift? Someone called in sick."
He closed his eyes. Fatigue washed over him like a heavy tide.
"Yeah. I'll come," he replied.
"We appreciate it," the manager said before hanging up.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and exhaled shakily.
He had class this afternoon.
He had homework due.
He had a body that kept collapsing unexpectedly.
He had medical bills hidden in a drawer.
He had a mind that screamed every night.
And now another shift.
He walked slowly toward the main road. The city was waking up. People passed him with hurried steps, laughter, coffee cups, morning routines. He wondered what it felt like to live without a storm inside your chest.
As he crossed the street, someone bumped into him lightly.
"Oh! Sorry."
A girl about twenty, carrying a stack of textbooks, bowed apologetically.
Her hair fell slightly over her face as she crouched to pick up the books she dropped.
"It's okay," Ha Jun said with his usual bright smile. "Let me help."
He knelt down and picked up a notebook that had fallen at his feet.
She looked up, surprised.
"Thank you."
Her eyes were warm. Soft brown.
Her face was familiar but he couldn't remember where he had seen her.
"I think we're in the same psychology class," she said, smiling shyly. "I'm Ji Hye."
Ah. That was where.
The girl who sat near the window.
The girl who always seemed lost in thought.
The girl who sometimes watched him during lectures, as if trying to read something in his expression.
"Ha Jun," he introduced himself.
"I know," she said, then blushed. "I mean, people in class talk about you."
He chuckled lightly.
"I hope good things."
She looked at him for a moment longer than expected.
Then she said something that made his heart hesitate.
"Your smile is very warm."
He felt a crack somewhere inside him.
It was a dangerous comment because warmth was the opposite of what he felt.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"But…" she added softly, almost hesitating, "sometimes your eyes look tired even when you smile."
The world slowed for a second.
His heartbeat stumbled.
His breath hitched.
His mask almost slipped.
He forced a laugh, brushing off her comment.
"I've been busy lately. That's all."
She nodded, though her gaze lingered on him as if she did not quite believe him.
They walked together until their paths separated.
She waved gently before turning the corner.
Ha Jun watched her go.
He felt exposed.
Seen.
Uncomfortably vulnerable.
He took a deep breath and started walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets. The pain in his side returned faintly. He ignored it.
As he reached the university gates, his phone buzzed with a message from his older sister, Ha Eun.
I left vitamins for you on your desk. Make sure you take them. And please eat.
Ha Jun smiled at the message.
A real smile this time.
Small. Fragile.
Grateful.
But beneath that gratitude lived fear.
He did not want his sisters to worry.
He did not want anyone to see how broken he felt.
He did not want his family to suffer because of him again.
His steps slowed as he walked across the campus courtyard. Students laughed. Friends greeted each other. The world seemed so loud and alive.
And he felt so quiet inside.
He wondered when the silence inside him became heavier than the noise outside him.
He wondered when smiling became easier than speaking the truth.
He wondered when pretending became his only survival.
He entered his first class and sat near the back, where he could disappear in the crowd. As the professor began speaking, his vision blurred for a moment. Letters on the board seemed to float.
He blinked rapidly, gripping the edge of his desk.
Not now.
Not in public.
The dizziness settled, but his hands trembled under the table.
He took out his notebook and began writing, though his mind was far away.
Drifting through dark corridors of memories.
Sixteenth birthday.
A cold floor.
Loud voices.
White hospital lights.
Panic.
Loss.
A girl named So Mi who would never grow older.
His breath hitched.
He shut his eyes tightly.
Not now.
Not here.
When class ended, students brushed past him quickly, chatting about lunch plans and weekend trips. Ha Jun remained seated for a while, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down. He placed a hand over his chest.
"Breathe," he whispered to himself. "Just breathe."
When he finally stood up, someone approached his desk.
It was Ji Hye.
"You left your pen," she said softly, holding out the black ink pen he had dropped.
"Oh. Thanks." He took it with a smile.
Her gaze lingered again.
Too observant.
Too gentle.
Too close to the truth.
"You look a little pale," she said.
He laughed lightly, brushing off her concern. "I'm always pale."
She did not laugh.
Her eyes softened instead, concern filling them.
"If you ever need someone to talk to…" she hesitated, then continued quietly, "you can talk to me."
The world froze again for a moment.
His chest tightened sharply.
He forced another gentle smile.
"I'm really fine," he said.
She nodded slowly, not convinced.
"Okay. Just… don't disappear."
He walked away before his mask slipped.
⸻
When he finally returned home later that afternoon, exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His shift would start soon. His homework was waiting. His body ached.
He entered his room and closed the door behind him.
The smile fell.
The warmth faded.
The darkness returned.
He slid down to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest, breathing shakily as the walls around him seemed to press inward.
His chest tightened.
His thoughts spiraled.
His heartbeat raced.
He pressed both hands against his head, whispering,
"Not again. Not again. Not again…"
His breathing grew uneven.
A silent breakdown.
The kind that left him feeling hollow.
Tears slipped down his face without sound.
He wiped them quickly, terrified someone might hear.
He stayed on the floor for a long time until his body forced him to move.
He got up slowly.
He changed into his work uniform.
He put on his smiling face again.
The world would see the bright Ha Jun.
The cheerful Ha Jun.
The warm Ha Jun.
Not the boy who broke quietly in his room.
Not the boy who could not breathe.
Not the boy haunted by memories.
Never that boy.
He stepped outside and closed the door behind him, leaving his broken pieces inside.
Another smile.
Another shift.
Another day of pretending.
The city lights flickered as he walked to work, unaware of the storm inside him.
And somewhere far behind him, unseen, unnoticed…
Ji Hye watched him from across the street.
Concern clouded her eyes as she whispered,
"Why does it feel like you're disappearing?"
Ha Jun did not hear her.
He kept walking.
One step at a time.
One breath at a time.
The boy who smiled too easily.
And suffered in silence.