Chapter Text
The apartment smelled like salt, mildew and even possibly something rotting in the walls. It wasn't spacious which made it more suffocating but Jaehee didn't mind. He was used to living life like this every day.
He was sore from tiredness but still did a little extra effort to reach the bedroom. His duffel bag hit the tiles of the floor before Jaehee let himself sink in the mattress of the bed. A sharp exhale escaped through his nostrils, in sync with the bed’s creak sound.
His eyes settled on a damp patch on the ceiling - shaped vaguely like a bird mid-flight, if he squinted hard enough. But he wasn't really seeing it. He wasn't seeing anything.
The hum of the fridge, the distant crash of waves outside, and the tick of a clock he hadn't noticed before all faded into the background as he let himself float in that weird limbo between exhaustion and numbness.
He had chosen this apartment near the sea hoping that something about the salt air, the grey skies, the detachment from the skyline he used to stare at every night, would help him disconnect. Not heal - he wasn’t naive enough to expect that - but maybe press pause. Let his mind rest somewhere other than in memory.
He knew this was temporary. A few weeks at best, before work would start calling, before friends he’d been avoiding would start prying, before he had to pretend again. But there was one thing - one person - he wouldn't be returning to.
Jaehee didn’t leave because of one big, dramatic thing.
He left because of all the almosts.
Almost loved.
Almost happy.
Almost okay.
Back in the city, everything felt too loud - his job, his friends, the way people expected him to always be “fine.”
He had a boyfriend once.
His ex.
It wasn’t a dramatic breakup. Just a long, slow erosion of boundaries and wants, until what was left didn’t feel like a relationship anymore, but a performance. The kind who said “I love you” like he was clocking out of a shift. One where Jaehee always played the same part: the agreeable one, the accommodating one. The one who let things happen to him, because it was easier than fighting. Jaehee stayed too long, hoping that if he softened himself enough, he’d finally be held right.
He thought back to the last time they’d had sex. It wasn’t violent, or loud. Just... empty. He had laid there, trying not to wince, trying to focus on the ceiling, on breathing, on anything else. His ex had said - almost jokingly, but not really - that he’d “grow to like it.” That it was “just a phase.” But it wasn’t. Jaehee had known for a while that sex - at least like that - wasn’t meant for him. Not in that way. Not with that person.
So when he’d finally packed that duffel bag, when he left behind his toothbrush, his half-read books, and the sweater his ex had once said he looked beautiful in - it had felt less like an escape and more like the first real choice he’d made in a long time.
The mattress dipped slightly beneath him as he turned onto his side. He could hear the sea now, more clearly. A rhythm he didn’t have to match. A presence that didn’t demand anything from him.
Jaehee stirred, body slow to catch up with mind. The sea hummed on. He peeled himself off the bed reluctantly, limbs heavy and mouth dry, and made his way to the kitchen.
There wasn’t much in the cupboards - he hadn’t exactly stocked up. But he found a half-loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, gritty and slightly oily at the top. It would do. He didn’t bother toasting the bread or sitting down properly, just stood by the counter, chewing slowly as he stared blankly at the open browser on his phone.
“Managing Chronic Insomnia,” the article read. He scrolled through paragraphs he’d read before. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. No caffeine after noon. Strict sleep schedule. Consistent wake times. Turn off all screens by 10 PM. He let out a soft scoff. Who had the time for that?
His job hadn't allowed sleep to matter. Pitches that stretched past midnight, meetings in different time zones, phones buzzing at ungodly hours, expectations that never shrank. Rest had always been optional. Or rather, not optional - but rescheduled, indefinitely.
Now, even in this silence, he couldn't find it. His eyes ached from tiredness, and his skull felt full of cotton. But sleep remained somewhere far outside of reach.
He finished the last bite of bread and licked peanut butter off his finger absently, before rinsing his hands and trudging toward the bathroom.
The tiles were pale yellow, once cheery but now dulled by grime and time. They needed scrubbing - something he'd promise himself to do tomorrow, knowing full well he probably wouldn’t. The fluorescent bulb above flickered for a second before holding steady, casting a tired glow on everything.
He reached for his toothbrush, squeezing a thin line of mint paste on it with muscle memory alone. As he lifted his head, something caught his eye in the bathtub.
A strawberry.
Not printed. Not part of the tub’s make. Someone had drawn it - messy and a little smudged, but undeniably a strawberry, made with what looked like red and green acrylic paint.
It didn’t mean anything. Not yet, anyway. Maybe the previous tenant had a flair for odd art placements. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe it was just one of those things that would stay unexplained.
He blinked, stared for a moment longer, then looked away and began brushing his teeth. The mint burned the inside of his cheeks. The sea was still whispering through the cracked-open window. And for once, there was no one waiting for him to say anything back.
Jaehee got up before the sun did.
He hadn’t really slept - at least not the way most people did. But somewhere in the early hours, between tossing and turning, he had slipped into something softer than rest and heavier than a nap. A dream.
He didn’t remember much, only scattered pieces. A grey sky spitting gentle rain. The kind that blurred everything - windows, memories, faces. A taste on his tongue, sweet and tangy. Strawberries. And someone else was there, too. Not clear, not whole. Just... a presence. A warmth next to him, like sitting beside someone without needing to speak. He didn’t see their face, but it didn’t matter. They hadn’t asked him to be anything.
The ache that clung to his body when he swung his legs off the bed felt lighter, somehow. Still there, but dulled. Like the pain had remembered how to be quiet.
He padded to the kitchen in worn socks, the floor cold against his heels. The morning sky outside was a dull, muted grey - the kind of weather people called “miserable,” but which Jaehee found oddly comforting.
He brewed himself some coffee. No milk. No sugar. Just heat and bitterness. Familiar. As he reached for a mug from the drying rack, his eyes caught on something in the sink.
Another mug.
He frowned slightly. He didn’t remember using two. Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe he’d poured one and then lost the taste for it. His mind had been foggy lately; this wasn’t new. But still - something about the way it sat there, a faint brown ring inside like it had been used and washed too quickly - felt off. Too fresh to be from before he arrived.
He took a sip from his own mug and turned his back to the sink.
Jaehee didn’t shower right away. Instead, he opened his laptop and pulled up his inbox. He had told himself he wouldn’t work on this break, that this space was meant for pause - but the habit was hard to break. The longer he sat in silence, the more it felt like guilt started to crawl in.
He typed mechanically. Replied to things that didn’t need replies. Edited slides that didn’t need editing. Let the hours fold over themselves until noon crept in unnoticed.
Finally, when his eyes started to sting and the air in the room felt too still, he made his way to the bathroom.
He peeled his clothes off slowly, fingers trailing over skin like it didn’t quite belong to him. The bathroom mirror was fogged from nothing, yet his reflection still looked tired. Older. A little lost.
Then he saw it.
In the corner of the tub, nestled where the wall met the floor, was a strawberry.
Not painted.
A real one this time. Rotten. Crushed. Split open like a wound. Its skin soft with mold, the red of it darkened, leaking into the grout. Flies hadn’t found it yet, but it wouldn’t be long.
Goosebumps rose on his arms instantly.
He stared at it, unmoving, a strange tightness blooming in his chest. Not fear. Not quite. But the unease of something intruding. Of the space around him no longer being entirely his.
His hand hesitated at first, then reached for a tissue. He wrapped the fruit in shaking fingers, careful not to touch the decay, and tossed it in the trash. The thud it made was too loud in the quiet.
He stood there for a long moment after, eyes fixed on the empty corner of the tub.
Then, without turning the water on, he left the bathroom.