The mornings began predictably, yet differently, in two cities.
In Busan, Soojin woke to the faint hum of her uncle's old ceiling fan and the soft light spilling through lace curtains. The morning smelled of rice, kimchi stew, and sea salt drifting from the harbor. Somewhere in the distance, a street vendor's voice echoed faintly through the narrow alleys: "Hot fish cakes! Fresh bread!"
Her uncle's house stood in an older part of Busan—small, sturdy, and full of quiet sounds. The radio played old trot songs in the kitchen, and her aunt's voice called softly, "Soojin-ah, breakfast is ready."
She joined them at the low wooden table, bowing slightly before sitting. The meal was simple—rice, soup, a fried egg—but every bite carried warmth. Still, the comfort of home couldn't silence the unease that had settled in her chest.
"Any interviews today?" her uncle asked, adjusting his glasses while flipping through the morning paper.
Soojin nodded, forcing a small smile. "Two. One near the port, another in Jung-gu."
Her uncle smiled encouragingly, though the lines around his eyes betrayed quiet worry. "You'll find something soon. Just keep trying."
"I will," she murmured, though the words felt heavy.
After breakfast, she packed her folder—a neat stack of résumés, references, and certificates—then stood before the mirror, smoothing down her blouse. Her reflection stared back, calm and careful. She practiced a smile, adjusted her collar, and whispered under her breath, "You can do this."
Outside, the streets of Busan were alive. Vendors shouted prices, children ran past in their school uniforms, and the scent of the ocean clung to the morning air. She took the bus downtown, gripping the metal handle as the vehicle rattled over old roads. The advertisements pasted along the windows—language schools, typing classes, cheap room rentals—blurred as the scenery passed by.
At her first interview, the office smelled faintly of paper and floor polish. A receptionist ushered her in with a polite smile. The manager, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, scanned her résumé briefly.
"Your qualifications are strong," he said, tapping his pen against the desk. "But this position requires two years of experience. You understand, yes?"
"Yes, sir," Soojin replied softly, bowing slightly.
He gave her an apologetic smile. "We'll keep your information on file."
That line had begun to sound like a script she already knew by heart. She thanked him politely, left the office, and walked down the narrow staircase, her footsteps echoing in the empty hall.
Her next interview wasn't much different.
By noon, she found herself standing near a small street stall, watching fish cakes simmer in broth. She hadn't eaten since morning, but her stomach twisted with unease. She ordered one anyway, eating slowly under the shade of an awning, the steam fogging her glasses. Around her, life went on—people laughing, buses hissing to stops, students chatting loudly.
But for Soojin, the world felt oddly muted.
By afternoon, her folder of résumés felt heavier than when she started. Each rejection chipped away at the quiet confidence she had built up. She kept walking, not because she knew where to go, but because stopping felt like surrender.
When she finally reached home, the sun was dipping low behind the hills. The house greeted her with warmth—the smell of dinner cooking, the soft hum of the television—but she felt like a ghost moving through it.
"How was your day?" her aunt asked gently.
Soojin smiled faintly. "It went fine. I just need to wait for a few responses."
Her aunt nodded, though she knew better. "You're working hard. That's what matters."
Later that night, Soojin sat at the low table in her room, spreading the newspaper across the surface. Her pen hovered over the job listings section, circling ads with faint hope. The ink smudged slightly beneath her fingers.
The clock ticked quietly on the wall. Every sound seemed to echo—the creak of the fan, the distant chatter from the living room, the muffled laughter from a variety show.
She sighed, pressing her palms against her face. How can I move out when the work I find isn't enough? How will I make it on my own?
Her uncle had promised to let her stay four more months, but time was slipping away. Independence, once exciting, now felt like a mountain she wasn't strong enough to climb.
In Seoul, mornings began with a different kind of noise.
The alarm clock on Min Hyunn's small bedside table buzzed sharply, breaking the silence of his cramped apartment. He groaned, reaching out to slap it off, but the sound of traffic and faint honking from outside made it clear—another day had begun.
His room was small—barely enough for a bed, a narrow desk, and a wardrobe. The wallpaper peeled slightly near the window, and the faint smell of instant noodles hung in the air.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face. "Already morning?" he muttered. His voice was rough, tired.
Breakfast was instant coffee, bitter and too strong, and a half piece of toast he had left from last night. He ate standing up, eyes scanning the small television flickering with morning news.
Then came the rush: ironing a shirt that wouldn't straighten, searching for matching socks, and running a hand through his hair in front of a cracked mirror. He muttered to himself the whole time, "Tie... wallet... keys... ID card—don't forget the ID card again."
By the time he stepped outside, the street was already crowded with office workers and students. The crisp morning air carried the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby cart.
The subway ride to work was packed. He stood squeezed between two strangers, clutching the overhead strap. Newspapers rustled, and someone's briefcase kept bumping his leg. His eyes felt heavy, and his mind was already on the pile of work waiting for him.
At the office, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly. His desk sat near the window, a small computer humming beside stacks of reports. His job wasn't glamorous—typing, filing, running messages between departments—but it paid the bills.
The hours crawled by, each task blending into the next. When he made a mistake on a report, his manager's sharp voice echoed in his ears.
"One more error, Min Hyunn, and it'll cost us time we don't have. Be careful."
He bowed quickly. "Yes, sir. I'll fix it immediately."
Lunch came late. He ate alone at his desk—a boxed meal of rice, kimchi, and fried anchovies—barely tasting it.
By evening, his shoulders ached from sitting too long. When he returned home, the apartment was waiting in its usual state of quiet disarray: laundry spilling over, dishes stacked high, papers scattered across the desk.
He sighed and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright, let's get this done."
He washed the dishes first, scrubbing until the metal sink gleamed faintly under the dull light. Then came laundry—handwashing shirts, hanging them carefully on the balcony rail. The cold air bit at his fingers.
Dinner was a small victory. A fried egg that didn't burn this time, a bowl of rice, and a side of kimchi. He sat at the tiny table, eating slowly, staring at the flickering light above.
Independence wasn't what he imagined. It was hard, tiring, lonely—but it was his life, and he was learning to live it, one small success at a time.
Back in Busan, another day came and went much the same. Soojin woke early, dressed neatly, and left with a quiet determination. But beneath it all, she was tired—tired of rejection, of smiling through disappointment, of pretending not to worry.
By the fourth week, her steps grew slower, her folder lighter. Some offices didn't even take her résumé anymore—they were already full, they said, or looking for "someone with experience."
That afternoon, after her last interview of the day, she left the building feeling hollow. The sky had begun to cloud over, the air turning cool with the promise of rain. She walked aimlessly through the city, her heels clicking softly against the pavement.
The streets smelled faintly of salt and exhaust. She passed a bookstore with posters of new novels, a stationery shop with rows of glitter pens, a tiny café playing a soft ballad through its door.
Everything looked normal. Ordinary. But to Soojin, it felt like the world had kept moving while she stayed still.
By the time she reached the park, her legs ached and her shoulders slumped under the weight of her bag. The park was small—just a few benches, old trees, and a faint sound of a radio somewhere nearby. Children's laughter drifted faintly from the swings.
She sat down heavily on one of the benches. The leather folder slipped from her hands and landed softly on the ground. For a moment, she stared blankly ahead, watching the leaves sway in the breeze.
Then the tears came. Quiet at first—just a shimmer in her eyes—but then stronger, trembling through her chest. She pressed her palms against her face, shoulders shaking, trying to muffle the sound.
The world around her blurred. The chatter of the park, the distant hum of cars, even the song playing faintly from someone's radio—all of it faded.
She didn't know how long she sat there. Minutes, maybe more.
But when she finally lowered her hands, she sensed someone watching her.
An elderly woman sat a few benches away, her shopping bag beside her feet, her gray hair neatly tied back. Her gaze was soft, thoughtful—a quiet kind of concern that didn't need words.
And though Soojin didn't notice right away, the woman kept looking—gently, steadily—as if she'd seen that kind of sadness before.
Let's see, if tomorrow will bring salvation—or complete collapse.