Work Text:
[9:02 PM]
The rain comes down in a fine mist, just enough to cling to Joohyun’s coat and dampen the loose strands of hair framing her face. It’s late—too late, really—but the city never truly sleeps. Neon lights flicker against puddles on the pavement, distorted by the rippling water. The streets are quieter now, save for the occasional car rushing past, tires hissing against the wet asphalt.
She tightens her grip on the strap of her bag, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she stares at the train schedule displayed on the board.
9:00 PM Train: Departed.
Next train at 9:30 PM.
Note: Last commercial train trip.
Of course.
Her shoulders drop as she exhales, the tension in her body settling deeper. Another late night, another missed train home. The next train is only a few minutes away. But for her—someone with too much to do and never enough time—it might as well be an eternity.
It’s becoming a pattern. Work running late. Deadlines stretching beyond what’s reasonable. Promises to herself broken with quiet resignation. She could have left earlier—should have—but there was always one more thing to finish, one more email to send.
It just never ends.
Joohyun lowers herself onto one of the cold metal benches, ignoring the way exhaustion presses against her skull. Her limbs feel weighted, as if the day has settled into her bones.
The station is nearly empty at this hour—just a few scattered figures waiting for their own way home, some absorbed in their phones, others staring blankly into the distance. She wonders how many of them feel the same way she does.
Exhausted.
Worn down.
Like they’re holding onto something that’s slipping through their fingers.
It’s not like she doesn’t know better. She’s read the articles, seen the warning signs: the growing fatigue, the dull ache behind her eyes, the creeping numbness that settles deeper each day.
Burnout. That’s what they call it.
A nice, clinical word for the feeling of standing on the edge of something vast and dark, knowing you’ll have to keep walking anyway.
But what’s the alternative? Slow down? Fall behind? Let someone else take her place?
She can’t.
Not when she’s spent years convincing herself that hard work is the only thing that gives her life weight. The only thing that makes her valuable.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket, but she doesn’t check it. She already knows—it’s either a late-night message from her supervisor or another ignored call from her mother.
Both can wait.
Her mother will ask why she’s working so much, why she hasn’t come home for dinner in months. She’ll remind her that the last time they had a proper conversation was over a year ago, during a rare Sunday lunch where Joohyun had spent most of the time scrolling through work emails under the table.
Her supervisor will apologize for the workload in that careful tone that makes it clear nothing will change. “You’re so reliable,” he always says, like it’s a compliment. She wonders if he’d still say that if he knew she sat in the bathroom stall during lunch breaks sometimes, just to breathe. Or that some mornings, she lies in bed for long stretches of time, staring at the ceiling and calculating exactly how many more hours she has to endure before she can crawl back under the covers.
She leans back slightly, tilting her head upward. The overhead lights buzz faintly, their fluorescent glow casting harsh shadows across the damp platform. The cold seeps through her coat and into her skin, but it’s nothing compared to the dull ache beneath her ribs.
For a brief moment, she wonders how she ended up here—not just in this train station, but in this life.
She used to dream of something bigger.
Years ago, she left home with the certainty that she would make something of herself. She wanted to be at the top, running her own company, making decisions that mattered. So she worked hard, pushed herself past her limits, climbed the corporate ladder step by step. And for a while, it was enough.
The promotions, the pay raises, the recognition—they felt like proof that she was on the right path. But now, the promotions feel hollow. Now, the pay raises vanish into rent and bills. Now, the recognition fades the moment the email thread closes. And all that’s left is this endless, gnawing emptiness.
She isn’t sure when it started—maybe after the third or fourth time she fell asleep at her desk, or when weekends started feeling like an extension of the workweek. When she stopped making plans with friends because canceling felt easier than showing up.
Now she’s just…tired.
Tired of the endless cycle of work and sleep and barely living in between. Tired of measuring her life by deliverables and performance reviews. Tired of walking into her apartment at night and feeling the silence press down on her chest.
She doesn’t even know what she’s working towards anymore. There’s no finish line, no peak to reach. Just more work, more hours, more exhaustion. Like running on a treadmill where the speed keeps increasing, even as her legs threaten to give out.
The rain picks up slightly, fat droplets tapping against the metal awning overhead. A sharp gust of wind carries the scent of rain and concrete through the open-air platform. She shivers, pulling her coat tighter around herself.
The idea of calling for a cab crosses her mind, but she hesitates. It’s expensive, and she’s already stretching herself thin. Maybe she’ll just wait here for a little while, let the quiet settle over her before she forces herself back into the rhythm of survival.
She closes her eyes. Just for a second.
And then—
“Joohyun?”
The voice is hesitant, familiar in a way that makes her breath catch.
Her eyes snap open.
She blinks, her eyes adjusting to the dim light as she turns toward the sound.
And there, standing just a few feet away, is someone she hasn’t seen in years.
Seulgi.
Her hair is slightly damp from the rain, her hands shoved into the pockets of an old jacket. She looks different, older—but those eyes, warm and searching, are the exact same as she remembered.
Joohyun feels her pulse stutter. A thousand things flash through her mind at once—the last time they spoke, the things left unsaid, the quiet understanding that stretched between them even as they drifted apart.
There’s a sudden pull in her chest, the same one she used to feel years ago when they’d race down the hill behind Seulgi’s house on rusted bikes, legs outstretched and laughing until their sides ached. Or when Seulgi would sneak into her room on summer nights, whispering stories beneath a blanket of cicada hums and distant streetlights. There was always a quiet gravity between them, unspoken but always there.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city hums around them, distant and detached, but here, in this small pocket of time, it’s just the two of them.
Joohyun’s throat tightens. Seulgi looks… good.
Tired, maybe, but good.
Joohyun swallows. “Seulgi?”
A faint, breathy chuckle escapes Seulgi’s lips. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”
Neither did she.
—
[9:05 PM]
Joohyun stares, the weight of the years settling heavily on her chest.
It feels strange—seeing Seulgi here, now, after so long.
It’s like an old melody she had nearly forgotten, only to have it play again when she least expected. It’s familiar, yet distant—close enough to touch, but still shadowed by the years that have passed. Like a song she once knew by heart but can’t quite remember the lyrics to anymore.
They grew up together. Neighbors in their small village tucked away in the quiet countryside, where the summers were long and the winters were quiet. Their houses were separated by a single wire fence, and yet it had never felt like a barrier. They spent most of their childhood climbing trees, riding bikes down narrow dirt roads, and staying out long after sunset, lying in the grass and talking about the lives they would have one day.
Back then, the future felt wide open. They would whisper about it beneath the stars, spinning dreams out of thin air—Joohyun’s about the city lights and the rush of important meetings, Seulgi’s about art galleries and murals stretching across city walls.
They swore they’d both make it. Together.
But life happened.
They left that village at different times, but the distance had already started to creep in before that. Joohyun went first, caught up in the momentum of a life that demanded more and more from her. Seulgi left later, chasing something that Joohyun didn’t quite understand but admired all the same.
And somewhere along the way, between the missed calls and the growing gaps between texts, they drifted apart.
Not because they wanted to.
Just because… life happened.
Time happened.
Seulgi shifts her weight, rubbing the back of her neck in a way that is so achingly familiar Joohyun almost smiles. That nervous habit never changed. She used to tease her about it back then—how Seulgi’s hand would fly to her neck every time she was unsure of herself. A small tell, so ordinary and yet so uniquely her.
“You… look good.” Seulgi says finally, her voice low and careful.
A simple statement, but Joohyun hears everything layered beneath it.
The hesitation. The surprise. The careful, unspoken words that neither of them knows how to say yet.
How are you? What happened? Are we still the same underneath all these years?
Joohyun swallows down the knot in her throat. “So do you.”
Seulgi huffs a small, breathy laugh, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Not sure about that. Long day at work. I must look like hell.”
Joohyun exhales sharply through her nose. “Join the club.”
That makes Seulgi smile—small, lopsided, just a glimpse of something softer before it fades. She steps forward, closer but not too close, tilting her head slightly as she studies Joohyun. “You missed the train too?”
Joohyun nods. “Work ran late.”
Seulgi hums knowingly. “Same.”
A gust of wind pushes through the station, carrying the sharp scent of wet concrete and rusted metal. The drizzle continues, fine and misty, clinging to their skin. There are distant footsteps echoing against wet pavement, a faint hum of traffic in the background—but here, on this platform, it feels like time has slowed.
Joohyun’s eyes drift toward the ground, watching the reflection of neon lights ripple through the puddles at their feet. She feels Seulgi’s gaze on her, steady and patient.
“How have you been?” Joohyun asks, though the words feel heavier than they should.
Seulgi exhales, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. “You know. Just… getting by.”
Something about the way she says it makes Joohyun’s chest tighten.
She knows what that means.
She knows because she’s been living it too.
The city had promised them everything once. It whispered stories of success, of endless opportunities, of becoming more. They had believed it. They had chased it.
But in the end, it had only asked for more and more until there was barely anything left to give.
Joohyun knows the feeling all too well—the slow erosion of energy, of joy, of self. How the things you once wanted so badly start to lose their shine under the harsh light of reality. How you wake up one day and realize that the version of yourself you’ve become isn’t the person you thought you’d be.
She studies Seulgi more closely now—the exhaustion in the way she holds herself, the faint shadows under her eyes, the weight she carries in her silence. And maybe Seulgi sees the same in her, because when their eyes meet again, there’s something quiet and knowing between them.
The years apart have changed them. But at this moment, they are still the same.
Joohyun shifts slightly, moving her bag aside. “Sit with me?”
Seulgi hesitates for only a second before nodding. She lowers herself onto the bench beside Joohyun, their shoulders not quite touching, but close enough that warmth lingers between them.
A train rumbles in the distance, passing by without stopping.
Joohyun’s fingers curl around the edge of the bench.
She shouldn’t ask. It’s probably better to keep the conversation light, to let this moment slip away without prying too much. But the question sticks to the roof of her mouth.
“Do you ever think about it?” she asks quietly.
Seulgi turns slightly. “Think about what?”
Joohyun doesn’t look at her when she answers. “Back then. The things we used to dream about.”
The silence that follows is not heavy, but thoughtful.
Seulgi exhales, tipping her head back slightly as she stares at the darkened sky. “Yeah,” she admits. “All the time.”
Joohyun finally glances at her. “And?”
Seulgi’s mouth pulls into something that resembles a smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “And… I don’t know.” She leans back against the bench, the line of her shoulder brushing against Joohyun’s. “I guess I thought we’d be happier by now.”
Joohyun’s throat tightens. She presses her palms against her lap, feeling the worn fabric of her coat beneath her fingertips. Her chest feels too full, like there’s something pressing against her chest that she can’t quite breathe past.
She remembers the way Seulgi used to talk about the future—bright-eyed and fearless, dreaming about traveling the world, being the best artist in the world, finding something meaningful. Joohyun had dreamed too—of success, of independence, of proving to herself and everyone else that she could build a life worth being proud of.
They had wanted so much once.
But life isn’t kind to dreamers.
Joohyun’s gaze drops to her hands. The ache beneath her ribs sharpens.
Because, God.
She thought so too.
—
[9:10 PM]
Joohyun doesn’t answer right away.
She watches as another train rushes past without stopping, its headlights cutting through the drizzle, illuminating the empty platform for just a moment before vanishing into the dark. The wind that follows tugs at her coat, at the loose strands of her hair, before settling into a quiet hum.
The city doesn’t wait for anyone.
Not for her.
Not for Seulgi.
Not for the versions of themselves who once stood at the edge of their small hometown, eyes filled with dreams so big they barely fit inside their chests.
She swallows. “Yeah,” she finally says. “I thought so too.”
The younger versions of themselves would have laughed at this—two adults, tired and burned out, sitting side by side on a train platform like ghosts of who they used to be.
Back then, they thought they were invincible. That life would always bend to their will.
She wonders if it would be easier if they were still kids, if they could go back to just sleeping and playing around, dreaming big dreams, untouched by reality. Back when happiness was as simple as summer nights and the hum of cicadas. Back when the hardest decisions they had ever faced were which ice cream flavor to get at the corner store.
Seulgi shifts beside her, the faint sound of fabric brushing against the bench. Joohyun hears the way her breath slows, deepens. The way her fingers twitch against the fabric of her pants, as if she wants to reach for something but isn’t sure what.
Joohyun’s throat tightens. She could reach out too. Close the distance. Let their shoulders brush. But there’s something fragile about this moment, like it might splinter if she moves too quickly.
For a while, neither of them spoke. It isn’t uncomfortable, but it is… something. A pause filled with all the things they could say, but don’t.
“Do you think we messed up somewhere?” Joohyun’s voice is low, another kind of question that feels dangerous to ask out loud.
Seulgi tilts her head toward her. “Maybe. Or maybe we just… grew up.”
Joohyun studies her face—the faint creases at the corner of her eyes, the quiet tiredness beneath her gaze. Seulgi used to be so bright. Always smiling, always in motion, always looking toward the next thing. But now…
Joohyun shifts slightly. “Do you ever think about going back?”
Seulgi blinks, turning to look at her. “Back?”
“To home,” Joohyun clarifies. “To—” she hesitates, then exhales. “To the people we used to be.”
Seulgi lets out a soft, breathy chuckle. Not in amusement. Not in disbelief. Just in exhaustion. “I don’t know if there’s anything left to go back to.”
Joohyun looks at her, taking in the way her expression flickers—brief, but there. The quiet press of something unspoken settling beneath the surface.
“I drove past the old school once,” Seulgi says quietly. “A few years ago.”
Joohyun’s brow lifts. “Yeah?”
“It’s smaller than I remember.” Seulgi smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Funny how everything looks so big when you’re young. Then you grow up and realize it was never that big to begin with.”
Joohyun’s chest pulls tight. She knows exactly what Seulgi means.
She thinks of the small hill near their school, where they used to sit after class, looking out over the town. Back then, the hill felt endless, like they could see the whole world from up there. But when Joohyun visited last year, it had taken her less than two minutes to walk across it.
Maybe it was never about the size of the hill. Maybe it was about how much smaller the world has become.
“Do you miss it?” Joohyun asks.
Seulgi’s eyes soften. “Yeah. But I don’t think it’s the place I miss.”
Joohyun exhales, understanding curling low in her stomach.
It’s not the place.
It’s the feeling.
The feeling of believing that life was just beginning. That anything was possible. That the future was something bright and waiting for them to reach out and take it.
“I used to think we’d have it all figured out by now,” Joohyun says quietly.
Seulgi huffs. “We were idiots.”
A small, fleeting smile tugs at Joohyun’s lips. “Yeah.”
The rain drizzles on and the city continues to move. But here, beneath the dim glow of the platform lights, Joohyun and Seulgi sit side by side, the weight of the years between them aching, but not unbearable.
And for the first time in a long long while, Joohyun doesn’t feel completely alone.
—
[9:15 PM]
The rain is steady now, soft and unhurried, like it has all the time in the world. It drapes the city in a quiet hush, muting the distant sounds of traffic, of footsteps, of life still moving somewhere beyond the empty station.
Joohyun pulls her coat tighter around herself, feeling the damp chill seep into her skin.
She should be thinking about how to get home faster. She should be worrying about the work waiting for her in the morning. She should be thinking about the emails she hasn’t answered, deadlines she’s already missed, and the meetings booked into her calendar without her consent.
But right now, she’s too tired to care.
She knows how it’ll go, anyway: she’ll sit in front of her laptop with a cup of coffee that’s already gone cold, trying to remember why she even started down this path in the first place. She’ll stare at the blinking cursor, feel the weight of it pressing down on her chest, and think—just for a moment—about walking away. About letting it all go.
But she never does.
So instead, she turns her head slightly, watching Seulgi from the corner of her eye.
Her hair is still damp at the ends, strands sticking to the curve of her neck. Her gaze is fixed somewhere beyond the edge of the platform, where the tracks blur into the dark. Her hands are tucked into her pockets, her shoulders slightly hunched against the chill.
Joohyun wonders—just for a moment—what life has been like for her all these years.
The same?
Different?
Has she been lonely too?
She wants to ask, but the words tangle somewhere in her throat.
She thinks about the last time they saw each other. How long has it been—seven years? Eight? Long enough that they should feel like strangers now. But somehow, it doesn’t feel that way at all.
Sitting here, with Seulgi close enough that their shoulders almost touch, feels more familiar than most things in Joohyun’s life these days.
A soft exhale escaped Seulgi’s lips. barely audible over the rain.
“Do you ever regret it?” Seulgi’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the noise all the same.
Joohyun’s gaze shifts toward her, the question settling heavily between them. Tonight feels shaped by questions—unspoken ones that have lingered for years, quietly pressing at the edges of their lives. But somehow, it feels easier to voice them now, softened by the rain and the quiet hum of the city. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, loosening the guard they’ve both held for too long. Or maybe it’s because deep down, these were the questions they’ve always wanted to ask—but never quite knew how.
Joohyun blinks. “Regret what?”
Seulgi leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her fingers press together, knuckles pale. “Leaving home.”
It’s an old question. One Joohyun has asked herself countless times. And yet, it still hits like a bruise pressed too hard.
Sometimes, she wonders if she made the wrong choice. If the life she left behind—small, quiet, unassuming—would’ve been enough. If she would’ve been happier with less.
But then she remembers the girl she used to be. The one who was desperate to escape. Who wanted more than just the same faces, the same streets, the same cycle of days repeating over and over. She remembers the way her heart used to race at the thought of finally leaving it all behind. How she thought it would feel like freedom.
She knows that if she’d stayed—if she never left, never took the chance—she would’ve regretted that too. She would have spent her whole life wondering what could’ve been. She would have sat on her childhood bed, watching the seasons pass through the same old window, cursing herself for never being brave enough to try.
Maybe that’s the most cruel part about life.
No matter which road you take, happiness is never guaranteed. That maybe we are meant to carry this quiet unhappiness either way, always wondering about the life we didn’t choose.
“I don’t know,” Joohyun admits. Her voice sounds thin, almost brittle. “Some days, I think about what it would’ve been like if I stayed.”
Seulgi hums. “And?”
Joohyun exhales slowly. Her breath fogs in the cold. “Would it have made a difference?” She asks it softly, more to herself than to Seulgi.
Would she have been happier? Or would the quiet life she left behind have turned just as gray, just as hollow as the one she’s living now?
“I just… I don’t think I would’ve been happy either.”
Seulgi chuckles, but there’s no real amusement in it. It’s low, tired. “Yeah.”
They sit there for a while, the rain painting streaks of light against the platform, the city’s neon glow reflecting in small, rippling puddles.
Joohyun tilts her head back, closing her eyes briefly. The ache behind her eyes is familiar now—the kind that comes from too little sleep and too much thinking. The life in the city has drained her, and most days she wonders how much of herself she has left to give.
“What about you?” she asks, voice softer now.
Seulgi doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tap rhythmically against her knee, like she’s sorting through her thoughts.
“Me too,” Seulgi says, her voice soft, cracking at the edges. “There are times where I think about what it would’ve been like if I stayed too. If I never left the village.”
Joohyun’s heart gave a quiet ache. She knows that feeling too well—the lingering press of what if beneath her skin.
“And?” Joohyun presses.
Seulgi’s lips curl faintly, but it isn’t a smile. More like the ghost of one. “And… I don’t think I would’ve been happy either.”
Joohyun’s breath catches. A quiet tug beneath her ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Seulgi tilts her head back, eyes half-lidded as she watches the rain blur the city lights into soft, muted streaks of color. Her jaw tenses for a second before relaxing, the muscles beneath her skin shifting almost imperceptibly.
Joohyun studies her—the delicate curve of her throat as she exhales, the faint crease between her brows that never quite goes away.
“I think… if I stayed, I would’ve resented it eventually.” Seulgi’s voice is low, almost lost beneath the distant sound of a passing train. “Waking up to the same streets, the same people. Living a life that was already mapped out for me.”
Joohyun understands understands. She knows what it’s like to want more and to fear it at the same time—to wonder if leaving was a mistake, and yet knowing, deep down, that staying might have been too.
Seulgi sighs, her gaze slipping toward the puddles scattered across the platform, reflecting the pale yellow glow of the overhead lights. “But maybe I would’ve been okay with it too.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say anymore.”
Joohyun watches Seulgi’s expression tense. A part of her wants to reach across the bench, close the space between them, but she stays still.
Seulgi’s gaze remains fixed on the puddles, eyes dark and unfocused. “Do you like your job?”
Joohyun’s mouth parts slightly, but the answer doesn’t come right away. Her first instinct is to confirm it—yes, of course. Because what kind of person hates the very thing they’ve spent years building? The very thing they sacrificed so much for?
But the silence stretches between them, and the weight of the question settles deep in her chest.
“Maybe,” Joohyun admits. Her voice sounds thin, almost brittle, like something fragile enough to break with the wrong touch. “It’s complicated.”
Seulgi hums. “Why?”
Joohyun exhales, her breath fogging in the cold. “I guess… It’s not what I thought it would be.”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. Empty.
“I thought it would mean something,” Joohyun says, her voice quieter now. “But most days, it’s just… noise. Paperwork. Back-to-back meetings where I don’t even know why I’m there.”
She laughs lightly, but it’s hollow. “And when I finally get home, it’s like I can’t even hear myself think anymore.”
Seulgi glances at her, brows furrowed. “So why stay?”
Joohyun’s lips part, but no sound comes out. The answer sits heavy on her tongue, too sharp, too raw.
She knows why.
She has always known why.
She left home chasing a future she believed was waiting for her in the city. She worked late nights, pushed herself past exhaustion, gave everything to a dream that, somehow, became smaller and smaller until it fit neatly into an office cubicle.
There were moments where she would stare at the ceiling, lying awake in an apartment that never quite felt like home—where she thought about turning back. Where she wondered if it was too late to start over. But even then, there is a quiet voice in her head telling her that going back would’ve meant admitting defeat. Leaving would’ve meant starting over, and she’s already sunk too much into this life to walk away.
Because then what would it all have been for?
Seulgi is looking at her like she already knows what Joohyun is thinking.
Joohyun huffs. “Why do you stay?”
Seulgi’s brows lift slightly.
“In your job,” Joohyun clarifies. “You always wanted to be an artist, right? Why not… pursue that?”
Seulgi’s expression shifts—something subtle, like the pull of a thread beneath the surface.
A quiet hesitation stretches between them, thin and fragile. Then Seulgi speaks, her voice low and measured. “Because passion and reality aren’t the same thing.”
Joohyun’s gaze sharpens. “What does that mean?”
Seulgi exhales, her breath barely audible over the soft patter of rain. “It means I learned that just because you love something doesn’t mean you can make a life out of it.”
Joohyun studies her—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightens as if the words taste bitter. Seulgi’s gaze drops toward her hands, fingers curling faintly around the edge of the bench. Her knuckles pale with the pressure.
“My mom used to say that,” Seulgi continues, voice quieter now, like she’s confessing something she’s carried for too long. “She told me that loving art wouldn’t pay my bills. That it wouldn’t keep me afloat when things got hard.”
Joohyun remembers Seulgi’s mom. The way her mouth would press into a thin line whenever Seulgi talked about art. The sharp edge in her tone—what are you going to do with that? The practical warnings wrapped in motherly concern.
Seulgi’s fingers press harder into the bench. “I hated hearing it back then. Thought she didn’t understand.”
Joohyun’s chest tightens. “And you really believe that?”
Seulgi’s lips curve faintly—a hollow, humorless gesture. “Yeah.” Her voice is soft. Final. “She was right.”
Joohyun swallows. Her throat feels tight. “That’s… kind of sad.”
Seulgi tilts her head toward her. Her gaze is steady now, pinning Joohyun in place. “Is it?”
Joohyun hesitates. Because she knows what Seulgi’s really asking.
Is it sad to give up on a dream? Or is it sad to chase one forever and never quite catch it?
The question settles deep in Joohyun’s chest, twisting painfully. She doesn’t know which one scares her more.
Joohyun hesitates. “You don’t miss it?”
She suddenly wonders if Seulgi is thinking about the girl she used to be—the one who dreamed of galleries and late nights spent with paint beneath her nails. The one who used to sketch during lunch breaks, filling the margins of her notebooks with soft, careful lines. The one who once told Joohyun, at sixteen, that art was the only thing that made her feel like herself.
Joohyun wonders if this is what adulthood is—learning that some things aren’t meant to be held onto forever. That sometimes, loving something isn’t enough to make it last.
Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe it’s realizing that the thing you love might not be enough to save you.
“I still paint,” Seulgi admits. Her voice is quiet, almost hesitant—like the admission might unravel something fragile between them.
Joohyun’s eyes widen. She turns her head, surprised. It feels like a secret, something Seulgi isn’t used to sharing anymore. “You do?”
Seulgi nods, lips curving slightly. “Not as much as I used to. But yeah.” She exhales, her fingers tapping idly against her knee. “Even if it’s just for myself.”
For herself.
Joohyun wonders what that looks like—Seulgi sitting by a window late at night, paint staining her fingers, quiet music in the background. Creating something no one else will see. Not for a gallery or a paycheck or for someone’s eyes to behold, but just because the urge hasn’t left her yet.
Joohyun studies her, taking in the way her expression softens when she talks about it. The quiet shift in her eyes. The faint curve of her mouth.
It’s subtle, but Joohyun knows what it looks like when someone is holding onto something quietly, desperately, even when they’ve convinced themselves they’ve let it go.
And something about that—about Seulgi still holding on to even a small part of the girl she used to be—makes something settle inside Joohyun’s chest.
“Good,” she says.
Seulgi glances at her, brows raised slightly.
Joohyun looks away, focusing on a distant light flickering in the rain. Her heart feels unsteady, her chest tightening with something sharp and warm.
“It’s good that you didn’t let it go completely,” she says.
She can’t explain why it matters so much—why hearing that Seulgi still paints feels like relief curling through her chest, loosening something knotted deep inside her. Maybe it’s because so much of growing up has been about letting go. About shedding pieces of yourself because they don’t fit the shape of the life you’ve built. Joohyun knows what it’s like to watch parts of herself slip away, to tell herself that it’s fine, that it’s what adulthood demands—that you can’t hold onto everything and still survive.
She knows what it’s like to choose the practical path, the sensible one. To watch the younger version of herself, the one with big dreams and reckless hopes, fade into something smaller, something more manageable.
It’s what happens.
It’s inevitable.
But hearing that Seulgi still paints, that she hasn’t let go of that part of herself completely, makes Joohyun feel like maybe not everything gets lost. That maybe some things survive, even after life has worn you down. That maybe you don’t have to surrender every part of yourself to make it through.
Seulgi’s gaze lingers on her, and Joohyun feels the weight of it. Like Seulgi is trying to figure out what Joohyun isn’t saying. But neither of them say anything more.
Then, after a while, Seulgi shifts beside her, her knee brushing lightly against Joohyun’s. Her voice is lighter now, almost teasing. “Hey, you didn’t answer my question.”
Joohyun blinks. “What?”
“Why do you stay?”
Joohyun hesitates, her gaze dropping toward the ground. The rain is still falling, soft and endless, blurring the city lights in the distance.
“It’d be too much of a waste to leave,” Joohyun says. Her voice sounds flat even to her own ears. “I’ve already invested so much—emotionally, mentally, time, effort…”
She trails off, hearing the hollowness in her own words. They sound like lines from a corporate handbook. A justification more than a truth. But what else can she say? That leaving would mean admitting it was all for nothing? That starting over feels more terrifying than staying trapped in a life that’s slowly draining her?
What would leaving even mean? Facing the possibility that there’s nothing better out there? That this—the exhaustion, the late nights, the quiet emptiness—might be the best it’s ever going to get?
Seulgi hums. A thoughtful sound, not quite agreeing or disagreeing.
“I get it,” Seulgi says after a moment.
Joohyun’s chest tightens at the quiet resignation in her tone.
Seulgi adds, her voice soft, almost thoughtful, “But that’s not all of it, is it?”
Joohyun furrows her brows. “Hm?”
Seulgi tilts her head. “You always wanted to be a CEO, right?”
Joohyun laughs—soft, a little hollow. She remembers saying that at sixteen, clutching a stack of business magazines she barely understood, flipping through glossy pages that promised sleek offices, power suits, and the kind of control she’d always craved. Back when ambition felt like a promise instead of a burden.
“Yeah, well.” She gestures vaguely, a tired smirk tugging at her lips. It feels bitter in her mouth. “Turns out, I’m just another ordinary overworked office worker.”
Another face in a crowd. Another cog in a machine that doesn’t stop turning.
She thinks about the long hours at her desk, the mind-numbing spreadsheets, the endless chain of emails that seem to multiply overnight. The way the fluorescent lights in her office buzz faintly, the sound pressing into her skull until it becomes part of the silence.
Some days, she thinks she’s losing pieces of herself to it. She sits in meetings, nodding along while her mind drifts elsewhere—wondering if this is it. If this is all her life will ever be.
Seulgi hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. But I don’t think that’s all you are.”
Joohyun blinks, caught off guard. “Oh?”
Seulgi’s lips curl at the edges—just barely. “I think you’re someone who was always meant for more.”
Seulgi isn’t looking at her when she says it—her gaze is distant, lost somewhere beyond the platform. But her voice is steady, certain, like she’s stating a fact rather than offering comfort.
Joohyun’s hands curl loosely on her lap. Her chest feels tight, the words pressing in from the inside. She doesn’t know if Seulgi actually sees something in her—or if she just wants to believe that someone does.
Because part of her feels like she’s been running on empty for years. Just pushing through because stopping feels too dangerous. Too final.
And yet—Seulgi’s words settle somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the quiet ache she’s learned to live with. A small, fragile part of her stirs at the thought that maybe she isn’t too far gone yet.
Joohyun swallows. Her gaze drops to her hands, to the faint crescent marks her nails have left on her palm. “I could say the same to you.”
—
[9:25 PM]
The drizzle finally slows to a fine mist.
A train rumbles in the distance, its heavy rhythm vibrating through the ground beneath their feet. It’s approaching, but not theirs.
Joohyun swallows. Her throat feels tight, the cold air pressing against her. “Do you ever think we’ll get there?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “To the lives we wanted?”
She doesn’t know why she asks. Maybe because the night feels too still, the weight of the rain too heavy. Maybe because Seulgi is sitting next to her, sharing the same struggles, making it easier to give voice to the thoughts that usually stay buried beneath the surface.
Seulgi doesn’t answer right away.
Joohyun watches the way her brows knit slightly, how her gaze drops toward her hands, fingers resting loosely between her knees. Her thumb traces the edge of her knuckle—a small, unconscious movement, like she’s turning over the question carefully in her mind.
But when she does speak, her voice is soft, almost like a promise.
“I don’t know.” Seulgi’s tone is steady, but there’s a quiet hesitance beneath it, a careful edge of vulnerability that Joohyun rarely hears from her anymore.
Seulgi’s gaze lifts toward the tracks, toward the blurred glow of the train lights breaking through the dark. A small breath escapes her lips, curling into the cold air.
“I don’t think there’s much time left,” she continues, her voice barely above a murmur. “But… I don’t think it’s too late either.”
Her gaze shifts toward Joohyun then, her expression open in a way that makes Joohyun’s breath hitch.
“I think we’ll figure it out.”
Joohyun doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she exhales, the weight of Seulgi’s words settling somewhere deep inside her.
I think we’ll figure it out.
It isn’t a promise. Not really. But it’s something close to it. A thread of quiet fragile hope.
For a long time, Joohyun had stopped believing in certainty. The city had taken that from her, replacing it with long nights, endless deadlines, and the creeping fear that she had already peaked without ever reaching the top. She used to think that life was supposed to have a clear path—a steady climb toward success, fulfillment. But all she’s found is detours and dead ends.
But sitting here, in the quiet hush of the station, beside someone who once knew her better than anyone else—
Maybe she believes in it. Just a little.
She shifts slightly, her shoulder brushing against Seulgi’s. “You always were more optimistic than me.”
Seulgi chuckles, tilting her head back slightly. Her smile is small, but it softens the lines of her face. “I don’t know if I’d call it optimism.”
“What would you call it, then?”
Seulgi hums, thoughtful. “I guess… I just don’t want to think this is all there is.”
Joohyun’s chest tightens at that.
This.
The endless cycle of exhaustion. The quiet dread of mornings that look exactly like the day before. The slow, creeping realization that life had turned into something they never planned for.
Joohyun turns to her, watching the way Seulgi’s gaze drifts past the station, beyond the city skyline, toward something unseen.
Seulgi’s profile is framed by the soft glow of the station lights, her expression quiet but open. Like maybe she’s still holding on to the possibility of something better.
Joohyun exhales, resting her hands on her lap. “Me neither.”
It’s a quiet admission. One she hadn’t realized she needed to say out loud.
Seulgi’s gaze shifts back to her, a flicker of understanding passing between them.
Seulgi tilts her head, a small smile playing at her lips. It’s soft, almost wistful. “Then maybe that’s enough.”
Joohyun frowns slightly. “Enough for what?”
“For now,” Seulgi says simply.
And somehow, Joohyun understands.
Maybe they don’t have all the answers yet. Maybe they’re still stumbling their way through life, trying to grasp onto something that makes it all worth it. The dream they once had has long since frayed at the edges. But maybe it’s not about chasing that dream anymore. Maybe it’s about learning how to live with the pieces that remain. Maybe this version of adulthood—the messy, uncertain one—is all there is.
But they’re here.
They’re still trying.
And Seulgi’s right. Maybe, for now, that’s enough.
Joohyun shifts on the bench, stretching out her legs slightly. “You know…” she starts, a bit hesitant, “I don’t think I ever told you.”
Seulgi glances at her. “Told me what?”
Joohyun hesitates. The words are right there—waiting—but saying them feels dangerous in a way she can’t explain. But Seulgi is looking at her now, and Joohyun has already come this far.
She exhales slowly. Her lips curve faintly, more self-conscious than anything else. “That I always believe in you.”
Seulgi stills. Her gaze flickers, widening just enough for Joohyun to notice.
The rain has almost stopped now, only the occasional droplet hitting the pavement. The neon lights above cast a soft glow against Seulgi’s face, illuminating the surprise flickering in her expression.
Joohyun feels her pulse quicken. Her heart presses sharply against her ribs, each beat a little louder than the last. Was that too much? Too sudden?
She almost wants to backtrack—to laugh it off or shrug it away—but Seulgi’s gaze remains steady, searching hers with quiet intensity.
But then Seulgi’s gaze softens, and she offers a small, quiet smile.
“I know,” she murmurs.
Joohyun’s breath catches.
It’s such a simple response, but something about it makes Joohyun’s chest ache. Because Seulgi says it like it’s obvious, like it’s always been true. Like it was never a question.
She’s spent so much time holding things in. guarding her feelings behind careful words and measured silences. But Seulgi has always seen through that, hasn’t she?
Seulgi’s smile grows, just a little. A quiet softness—the kind that Joohyun knows isn’t for anyone else.
“I always believe in you too.”
Joohyun’s breath shudders, her fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the bench. Something about hearing that—hearing it so simply and plainly—makes her feel raw in a way she isn’t used to.
Because how long has it been since someone said that to her? Since someone looked at her and saw more than just competence or reliability? Since someone believed in her, not just the version of herself she projects to the world?
Joohyun’s gaze drops toward the ground, her throat tight.
A train rumbles in the distance, the soft screech of metal against tracks breaking the fragile quiet between them. The sound hums through the ground beneath her feet.
Seulgi stretches her arms over her head, the fabric of her jacket rustling softly as she moves. Then she stands, rolling her shoulders slightly. Her gaze flickers toward the platform edge. “I think your train is finally here.”
Joohyun’s eyes follow the distant glow of headlights cutting through the night. The train slows, metal grinding against metal, the low hiss of brakes filling the air.
For a moment, Joohyun doesn’t move. Her eyes drift back toward Seulgi, lingering on the easy slope of her shoulders, the faint softness in her expression. There’s no urgency in the way Seulgi stands there—no expectation. Just quiet steadiness.
Joohyun exhales and pushes herself up from the bench. Her limbs feel heavy, but the weight pressing against her chest feels lighter somehow.
They stand side by side, close enough that Joohyun can feel the warmth radiating from Seulgi’s arm. There’s something different now. Something lighter, something unspoken but understood.
Thirty minutes.
That’s all it took.
Thirty minutes to unpack things she hadn’t been able to face for years. To lay bare the quiet exhaustion and the weight of adulthood that she’s been carrying alone. To say things she hadn’t even realized she needed to say.
It feels absurd—that after years of grinding through the same motions, of dragging herself through long days and longer nights, it only took thirty minutes to feel like something cracked open. To feel like maybe she doesn’t have to be stuck forever.
She’s spent years trying to push herself forward, chasing a version of herself she thought she needed to become. And yet, in the span of a single conversation, she feels like she’s grown more than she has in the past decade.
Thirty minutes to remember what it feels like to look forward to something.
Thirty minutes to find hope again.
—
[9:30 PM]
The train doors slide open with a quiet hiss. A cold gust of air rushes through the gap, curling around Joohyun’s ankles.
“This one’s mine,” Joohyun says, her voice quieter than she means it to be.
Seulgi nods, shifting slightly on her feet. “Alright. Mine’s arriving in a minute.”
Joohyun’s gaze flickers toward the open doors, then back at Seulgi. There’s a strange, heavy tightness in her chest—the kind that sits and refuses to ease. Like she’s supposed to say something before the train leaves. Like if she doesn’t, this moment—this fragile, unexpected reunion—will slip through her fingers the way time already has.
She hates that feeling. The quiet inevitability of endings. The way goodbyes seem to creep up on you, even when you try not to notice. Even when you’ve been bracing for it from the beginning.
But when she opens her mouth, nothing comes out.
Seulgi looks at her then, and there’s something in her expression—something knowing, something familiar.
It’s the same look Seulgi used to give her when they were younger. When Joohyun was too guarded, too stubborn to admit when something was wrong. When Seulgi would sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, until Joohyun’s silence eventually broke open.
It’s always been like this with Seulgi. Words are left unsaid, yet somehow still heard. Seulgi has always known how to fill the spaces Joohyun leaves behind.
Joohyun doesn’t have to say it.
Seulgi already understands.
Joohyun exhales, glancing toward it, then back at Seulgi. “I guess this is it.”
Seulgi tilts her head slightly, that same small smile still playing at her lips. “For now.”
Joohyun’s breath catches.
For now.
Not goodbye. Not take care. Not see you whenever.
But for now.
A quiet promise. A reassurance that this isn’t the last time. That there’s still room for another meeting, another moment, another chance.
Joohyun steps forward, but before she boards, she hesitates, looking back one last time.
Seulgi lifts a hand in a small wave, the neon lights casting a faint glow around her. Her expression is calm, but Joohyun knows better. There’s a softness beneath it, a quiet longing that matches her own.
Joohyun wants to say something—wants to reach out, wants to pull the moment closer and make it last a little longer.
But maybe not yet.
Not when they’re both like this—not when they’re both still standing on uneven ground. Not when they’re both tired in the way that years of quiet disappointment can make you tired. Joohyun has spent so long moving forward because stopping felt too dangerous. And Seulgi has been standing still, quietly letting time wear her down.
Maybe reconnecting now would only pull them under.
But maybe someday.
Instead, she just looks. She lets her gaze linger, memorizing the moment—the steady warmth of Seulgi’s presence against the cold backdrop of the city. The curve of her shoulders beneath the soft glow of streetlights. The way her hands disappear into the pockets of her jacket. The quiet steadiness in her gaze, like she’s not asking Joohyun to stay, but hoping, somehow, that she’ll want to.
And Joohyun does. She wants to stay. She wants to sit on that cold bench and let the next train pass by, and the next, and the next—just to keep this moment stretched between them a little longer. She could ditch this last train. She knows that. But she also knows that’s not what this moment is supposed to be.
So without further ado, Joohyun finally steps inside.
The train doors slide shut with a soft click. The train jolts forward, and through the window, Joohyun watches as Seulgi grows smaller, her figure framed beneath the dim glow of the platform lights.
Seulgi doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in her pockets, watching Joohyun go. That quiet smile still lingers on her lips.
Joohyun leans back against the seat, her breath slow and measured. The city slides past in a blur of muted colors and fractured light.
She could still feel the shape of Seulgi’s gaze on her skin. And beneath the quiet hum of the train, Joohyun feels a spark starting to ignite inside her—a quiet, tentative thought that this isn’t the end of their conversation.
She doesn’t know when. She doesn’t know how.
But she knows.
She’ll see Seulgi again.
And next time—
Next time, maybe they’ll both be standing on steadier ground. Maybe the weight of the city will feel lighter. Maybe they’ll be a little less exhausted. A little less lost.
Maybe Joohyun won’t be so afraid of what comes next.
Maybe next time, they’ll both be better.
And next time, maybe she’ll know what to say.