Chapter Text
He sat on the edge of his bed. Carefully removing his slippers, he aligned them perfectly. He wasn’t much of a neat freak, at least he liked to think – it’s just that’s it’s easier to slip your feet in slippers when you wake up in the middle of night. When you can’t turn on the night light just yet. Not so practical, if you bothered to ask him but vaguely superstitious as he was, he’d say that turning the lights on even for a few would prevent him from falling back asleep. And he needed sleep.
So, the slippers were aligned, the glass of water was on the left nightstand (the closest to the bedroom door) and his phone was humming the melody of a windy forest. The birds chirped. A 3-hour long video he put on loop. If you are interested, it’s Forest River Nature Sounds – Gentle Stream with Birdsong | 4K Relaxing Nature Ambience for Sleep. Less egregious and offensive than Relaxing Rain Noise + Forest Stream – at least in his opinion.
He carefully unfolded his silky-smooth heavy blanket, carefully lied on the bed, afraid of leaving any wrinkle on the bed sheet. Softly placing his head on his feather pillow, lying on his back, he proceeded not to sleep. And there he went again – staring at the ceiling, his hands folded over his stomach. He tried to think in detail of everything that bored him: his job, the emails he had yet to answer, the pointless conversations with his boss, his living room’s decoration – especially that one painting hanging on top of the TV with the grey and white stains of paint hideously splashing that nonchalantly brushed black canvas. He bought it in a random art gallery 10 years ago. The painting felt fresh, modern, new. But now it bored him. Oh, how much it bored him. Why was it there, hanging on his wall? He hated it. He felt a wave of resentment flooding his chest – who thought it was a good idea to just vomit white and grey paint and call it a day? Who thought it was modern? Who thought it was new? Who thought it was youthful?
A relic of vacuity and emptiness. He slyly chuckled – it was not the painting’s fault, what was he getting so worked up about? He will throw it in the trash tomorrow, auctioning or selling not being an option, seeing how abysmally empty it was. It was his fault. His. Not even the painter’s, he probably thought it was a joke, that no one would be shallow or pretentious enough to buy it. But there came that 10-year-old younger restless man, and he bought it. His fault, for buying it. He sighed. Back to counting sheep. Real sheep counting, for real: he stopped at around 132. This was boring, but not the right kind of boring. Sheep. Countryside. His uncle’s farm. Holidays. Roaming chicken. Eggs. Fried eggs. Steamed bread. The dog barking. Bomi. Bomi never bit. Bomi was an old little girl with white hair on his face – the rest of her body had black hair. Bomi led and protected sheep flocks. Bomi. He has not seen grass fields in years. He used to run in the fields and then his mom would scold him because his shoes were muddy. She would then hose him with freezing cold water.
If he can be thankful for one thing, it is that he does not get hosed that much these days. Would being hosed help with sleep? He used to sleep well as a kid, so there is a direct and evident correlation, no fallacies to be found. Plants must be sleeping well, then, seeing how often they’re hosed. Well, when they are taken care of. He doesn’t get hosed, and it barely rains these days. Well, he still hears the river flowing in the background of his thoughts. Does it count if it’s a YouTube video on his phone? Does it count? He checks his phone for the time: 5:27 am. The sleeping pills failed him, once again. He needs to be at the office by 8, though he works at 9 – he’s a bit late, deadline wise. It was a 30-minute car commute but considering the traffic jam delay, he needs to be outside by 7.
He stood up, slipped his feet in the neatly arranged slippers, turned the nightstand light on, tidied his bed and got rid of the few bedsheet wrinkles, folded his pajamas and went on to prepare for what was waiting ahead of him. His head was pounding, his eyes oddly batting. Morning exhaustion, must be. What he needed was coffee. A new café, whatever it was called, opened right in front of the building he works at, and he hoped it was better than the former coffee shop down the street. Their coffee tasted like instant coffee, the Nescafe type and oh, he hated Nescafe. That meant that he had to leave earlier. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair and got dressed in his favorite black suit. All his suits looked sensibly the same, but this one was his favorite – the fabric was softer, and it had that odd almost imperceptible shimmering effect you can only see in a certain angle. That effect... how is it called already? He shook his head. He’ll look for it later. He laced his shoes and headed for the car – 6:40 am. More time for the coffee and reading and probably a bit less time stuck in traffic jam.
He loved his car. A black 2025 S90 Volvo, mind you. As a background noise, this time, he opted for Relaxing Meadow with Ambient Nature Sounds, Wildflowers and Mountain View. The birds chirped again. He started the engine and drove out of his street. He liked driving – there was something so peaceful in steering the wheel. Making yourself go wherever you want. The headlights were softly beaming. The red lights were smiling at him. He smiled too. He never realized until now how kind and caring the streetlights were. He parked his car 42 minutes later in the small parking lot of the Whatever café, left his car with the current book he opted for, Microeconomic Theory by Andreu Mas Colell, Michael D. Whinston and Jerry R. Green. He didn’t think it was absolutely thrilling but it was useful, for what it was worth, and it was a very welcome optimization of his time. And if it can help with efficiency, then it was a bonus. His book in hand, he opened the car door and suddenly felt dizzy, his eyelids fluttering at the speed of a hummingbird’s wing bat. He maintained his eyes shut with his fingers until it stopped. Sweat was running down his spine – late winter came with its fair lot of surprising temperatures, he thought to himself. He walked to the door of the café and since he is that kind of man, he directly knew that he had to push the door.
He was met with quite the impressive queue. Of course, 7:21 am, everyone’s sleep deprived just like him. So, he waited, hoping he would have time to read a little bit. Though it never seemed there was enough time. He loosened his tie - a bit too tight around his neck to his taste. He needed that coffee. He really needed that coffee. Please, that coffee.
A sudden feeling of urgency flooded his chest. Something he could not name, something, something, something. It is something. Something.
Please stop that something. Please.
“Hello sir, welcome to [something] café. What can I get you this morning? We have a special drink this month: [something] latte with chocolate syrup and mascarpone, we also have oat milk, almond milk and soy milk if you’re not into regular milk. Oh, and skimmed milk of course!”
That something buzzed in his ear. Everything was distorted but the face of the man behind the counter. Half long hair, genuine smile, genuine enthusiasm that made him feel like he was special. Great customer service, that's for sure. Though he has never met anyone that was the personification of... whipped cream? He had that spontaneous, aerial thing about him that was so softening, so endearing.
“Americano, no sugar, please.” His voice sounded weird to himself.
“Something else with that?”
“No. No.”
The man behind the counter raised an eyebrow, concerned. “Sir, are you feeling alright? Do you want to sit down? I can bring your coffee straight to your table if you want.”
“No.” The man behind the counter glanced at the woman next to him, cleaning [something]. She shook her head and the man behind the counter shrugged.
“Can I have your name?”
“In-ho” The man behind the counter smiled. “That is a pretty name, In-ho” He scribbled his name on a paper cup. In-ho stared at him.
If he didn’t know better, he would’ve said that this man was handsome.
“Your name?” The man answered with a shy, close to imperceptible smile at him and he pointed out with his finger the [something] where his name was written.
In-ho looked at him, the rigid expression on his face filled with a mix of fear and something else. He lost the word. What? The man behind the counter saw In-ho’s composed distress. “Gi-hun! I’m Gi-hun!”.
“Gi-hun.”, whispered In-ho.
“Don’t worry Mr. In-ho, I am here, my colleague will take [something] coffee.”
She nodded. In-ho had nothing to say so he stared at a single white hair on Gi-hun’s hair. Gi-hun allowed his white to grow. What a beautiful white hair, and it was impossible to look at anything else – nowhere else. He heard the diffuse sound of customers complaining behind him, and maybe the man behind the counter talking to him.
White hair. White hair. White hair. Bomi had dark hair everywhere but her face. White hair. He wanted to wrap his finger around that one white hair.
“[something] sit down, [something] table over there, you can [something] my hand.”
Gi-hun. Worry. Nice. Worry. Hand. White hair. White hair. White hair. Something? Eyes batting. Fluttering. Bomi. Gi-hun, hosed? Dirty shoes? White hair. Something. Hose after grass mud. Gi-hun.
No.
And that is how In Ho collapsed on the floor of the café. His Colell, Whinston, and Green book about the Microeconomic Theory, split open on page 72, faced the ground. Foam and blood drooled out of his mouth - his tongue was bitten. In-ho was convulsing and there was nothing he could do. He did not hear the agitation, the people yelling and rushing to come and see him, how he lacked air and how the one-single-white-hair man pushed people yelling for them to let him breathe. He did not hear Gi-hun begging someone to call an ambulance. He did not feel how his body was rolled to the side. He did not feel Gi-hun’s shaky hand place his sweater under his head. He did not know the medics were on their way. He did not know how much time he took. He did not know that Gi-hun remained by his side, he did not hear how he nervously told him about his 7-year-old daughter, Ga-yeong, and her recital tonight at 6pm. He did not hear Gi-hun telling him he could come, while gently stroking his hair.
In-ho finally stopped convulsing but did not wake up just yet. He did not hear the deafening ambulance sirens. He did not feel how the medics lifted his body to lie him on a stretcher. He did not see how Gi-hun cautiously picked his briefcase from the ground and followed his stretcher up to the ambulance car. He did not feel the man behind the counter softly, kindly holding his hand, telling him everything was going to be alright. Oh, how he would’ve wish to know that somehow, someone cared enough to hold his hand, for a few seconds. Nothing else ever even mattered until his hand was held. Nothing.
And then, he heard the faint sound of meadows. Birds were chirping again. Buzzing bumblebees were merrily dancing around his brain. He gasped for air. Do bumblebees sting? What time was it?
He was going to be late for work. Always a fraction of time too late.
He was stunned by the clinical white ceiling. The dazzling light burned his eyes. No. Where was he? He looked around. Unfamiliar. He then turned his head, and he saw the… man? That one man. Oh, that one man. The man must’ve heard his thoughts. “Hello, In-ho.” The man beamed at him with an odd upside-down smile. “Don’t worry, everything is going to be alright, and I’m here if you need anything.” He looked at the ceiling and folded his hands over his stomach.
Why was he here? Last time he was ever taken to the hospital in an ambulance was when he was a teenager - he broke his leg rushing to... where? He sighed. Why was his brain turning into baby puree? Why was he thinking of baby puree?
Oh that's Gi-hun, right? The man next to him, Gi-hun. And he had one white hair. He turned to look at him, stealing a glance or two. The man who supposedly was Gi-hun seemed to be texting someone on his phone and on his knees sat his perfectly folded suit jacket. In-ho's mouth outlined a smile.
Now that his eyes were fully open, he noticed the medic - a young woman, in her thirties, looking at him with a slight tinge of curiosity in her eyes stared at him before asking: “Hello sir, how are you feeling?”
“Bad”, he mumbled.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“No."
Bomi. White hair. Gi-hun looked at him with that same upside down smile. Was it a sorry smile? Did he feel sorry for him?
“Do you know why you are here?”
“No.”