I don't remember what I looked like as a child.
Not the version in school ID cards or the blurry graduation pictures, those still sit, dusty and pale, on my mother's shelf back in Daejeon. I mean the real kind. The me that existed before school uniforms and polite smiles. The girl who sat on rooftops with scraped knees and imagined stars falling just for her.
She faded somewhere along the way.
Maybe in high school, when group projects meant being spoken over. Maybe in college, when I walked out of a design presentation and realized no one had remembered my name. Or maybe later, when I moved to Seoul alone with two suitcases, a portfolio of half-finished ideas, and a flip phone no one bothered to text.
I am 23 now.
And every morning, I brush my teeth to the sound of my upstairs neighbor's television and wonder if I'm wasting my youth.
—
I became a graphic designer because I didn't want to talk much. Design lets you say things without saying them. Colors, fonts, spacing they speak without a voice. And I liked that. I still do. Though lately, everything I make feels muted. Like I've forgotten how to feel loud.
I spend my weekdays wrapped in grayscale. My flip phone only rings when Jiwoo yells at me from two desks away. It's old, scratched, and stubborn, but it doesn't distract me with updates or noise. It doesn't remind me that everyone else has something I don't.
Sometimes I think I've already lived the most vibrant part of my life. At 16, I had dreams. At 18, I had drive. Now I have decent insurance and a cardigan with holes in the sleeves. But no one has ever held my hand.
Not once.
—
Yumi says I need to "experience something."
She means it in that sunny, slightly-exasperated tone of hers, like I'm a plant she's trying to coax into blooming.
Yumi is... different.
She feels too much, all the time. Cries when boy band members cut their hair. Laughs over edits of cat memes. She knows trends before they trend and has three Spotify playlists titled "breakup I never had." Her desk smells like lavender. Her nails always match her mood.
Sometimes I envy her. Other times I just let her talk while I nod. It's easier than explaining why I don't relate.
But she's kind.
And in this world, kindness isn't small.
—
Jiwoo, on the other hand, doesn't believe in soft things.
She's 25, the boss's right hand, and has mastered the art of the death glare. She drinks coffee like it's blood. Her computer never sleeps, and neither does she. But when the lights dim, and no one's watching, she makes sure my drafts aren't buried under last-minute edits.
I think she cares about us in her own way. She just doesn't know how to show it without sounding like she's yelling.
And even when she is yelling, we never take it personally. Because Jiwoo's rage is the kind that comes from exhaustion, not cruelty. From being the girl who had to grow up too fast. From holding everyone else's weight, even when no one asked her to.
—
Sometimes I watch the two of them talking.
Yumi animatedly waving her hands. Jiwoo pretending not to care while secretly laughing behind her cup. And me, sitting there quietly, watching their reflections in the office glass like I'm not part of it.
Like I'm outside of everything.
—
But I'm still here.
Living. Existing. Checking email threads. Drafting logos. Eating alone. Drinking instant miso soup for dinner.
Still wondering if I'm doing something wrong, or if this is just what adult life is supposed to feel like.
Quiet.
Colorless.
Lonely in the softest way.
—
And yet, today… I catch Yumi's voice through my headphones.
"Minseo, listen to this part," she says, leaning over with her phone in hand. "It's Choi Jong-Su's high note from last night. Goosebumps. Literal goosebumps."
I nod politely, not really hearing it.
But something about the name sticks.
Choi Jong-Su.
She's mentioned him before. The leader of some boy band. Neon something.
I glance at her phone, just for a second.
There he is on the screen, singing under stage lights with his eyes half-closed, like the music physically hurts to sing. His voice trembles but doesn't break. And for a moment, I wonder what it's like to feel something so deeply you let the whole world watch you fall apart.
Then I blink, and I'm back at my desk.
Quiet. Safe. Untouched.
—
But somewhere inside, something shifts.
Not enough to change me.
Just enough to remind me I'm still capable of wanting something more.