The fan in Jaegun's room whirred like it had been trying to die for years but couldn't quite manage it. The air was thick with the smell of last night's instant ramen, and the sunlight that cut through his half-closed blinds turned the dust in the air into slow-moving gold flecks. He lay sprawled across his bed in a way that made it look like he'd lost a fight with gravity—shirt half-rolled up, one leg hanging off the side, phone pressed against his cheek.
There was a buzz. Then another. He grunted, fumbled for the phone, squinted at the screen.
Mom:Wake up already. Trash day. You forgot last week.
He groaned, tossed the phone face-down onto his pillow, and rolled over. The message notification disappeared into silence, but the guilt didn't. It never really did.
He knew she'd be at work already—his mom always left by seven, wearing that same navy uniform that smelled faintly of detergent and coffee. She worked reception at a dental clinic downtown, the kind of job that demanded a permanent smile even when your insides were scraping against the edges of exhaustion. His dad, a delivery driver for some logistics company, had probably been gone before sunrise.
Their house sat at the edge of a suburban neighborhood about forty minutes out from Manhattan, where lawns were trimmed but fences peeled just enough to show time's wear. It wasn't a bad place, but it was the kind of suburb that felt like a waiting room—nobody's final destination, just somewhere people lingered between bigger dreams.
Jaegun's dream had expired quietly in the corner of his mind sometime during senior year. He'd coasted through high school, always promising himself he'd get serious tomorrow. Then tomorrow kept arriving empty-handed. When college letters came, most of them were polite rejections. The one or two acceptances were from places too far, too expensive, or too unappealing to matter.
He'd barely scraped through finals—his teachers called him "capable but unmotivated," which was a polite way of saying lazy but not stupid. He didn't disagree. He just didn't know what to do about it.
The front door opened downstairs, a rush of morning wind pushing through. His dad's voice, sharp and low, cut into the stillness.
"Jaegun! You awake?"
He stayed quiet.
"I said, you awake?!"
He sighed, rolled out of bed, and shouted back, "Yeah!"
"Then get down here."
The tone meant it wasn't optional.
He stumbled into a T-shirt that smelled faintly of sweat and cereal, padded barefoot down the stairs. The kitchen was small but bright. His dad stood by the counter, rummaging through a pile of mail. His delivery uniform looked one shift past clean—creases sharp, eyes dull.
"You forgot the trash again."
Jaegun scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, sorry. I'll do it now."
His dad exhaled through his nose, the sound long and tired. "You always say that."
"I'll actually do it this time."
"Yeah? Like how you said you'd look for a job last week?"
He opened the fridge to avoid answering. Inside: half a bottle of iced tea, leftover kimchi, a few plastic containers with mystery contents. He poured himself a glass of water, took a sip, pretended to be deeply interested in the pattern of condensation on the glass.
His dad dropped the mail on the table—bills mostly—and leaned against the counter. "Your mom's worried, you know. She doesn't say it, but I can see it. Every night she asks if you've applied anywhere."
"I'll figure it out," Jaegun muttered.
"When? When you're thirty?"
He wanted to say something sharp, something that would end the conversation, but he didn't. He just kept drinking water he didn't need.
"You're not a kid anymore," his father said, his voice quieter now. "You're eighteen. You finished school. What's next?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
Silence filled the kitchen like heavy smoke. His father's disappointment was a physical thing—you could feel it in the air.
"Look," his dad said finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I'm not asking you to be a doctor or lawyer or whatever. Just do something. Anything."
Jaegun nodded, though it was half-hearted. "Yeah."
"Say it like you mean it."
"Yeah, okay. I will."
The older man didn't believe him, but he didn't press. He just grabbed his keys, muttered something that sounded like don't waste your life, and headed for the door.
When it shut, the house went still again, except for the fridge's low hum and the sound of cicadas screaming outside.
By afternoon, the day had settled into its usual rhythm—hot, slow, meaningless. Jaegun lay on the couch scrolling through social media, half-watching a video about some guy living off-grid in Alaska. He didn't even like those videos; they just made him feel smaller somehow.
At three, his phone buzzed again.
Minho:yo u coming tonight? woods party near old creek. got beerDara:don't flake loser
He smiled despite himself. Those two were his constants since middle school—Minho with his reckless energy and loud laugh, Dara with her sarcastic calm that somehow balanced it.
Jaegun:yeah i'll come. what timeMinho:9ish. we'll grab u
He tossed the phone aside and stared at the ceiling.
The woods. It was stupid, really—some half-cleared area a few miles out where kids went to drink, talk too loudly, and pretend the world didn't care about them. But it beat another night sitting under that dying ceiling fan wondering what to do with a life that refused to start.
He spent the next few hours in a kind of autopilot. Showered. Found clean clothes. Tried to fix his hair, gave up halfway. His mom came home around six, tired lines under her eyes, the smell of mint and antiseptic clinging to her uniform.
"You're going out again?" she asked as soon as she saw him.
"Yeah. With Minho and Dara."
"Don't stay out too late."
He nodded.
She looked at him for a long second, eyes narrowing slightly. "Did you eat?"
"Not yet."
"There's curry in the pot."
"Okay."
He served himself a plate and sat at the kitchen table. She moved around the house quietly, changing clothes, folding laundry, cleaning up little things that didn't need cleaning. That was her way of dealing with stress—keep moving until the silence got tired of following.
Finally, she sat across from him with a cup of barley tea.
"Your father told me you're not applying anywhere," she said.
"Yeah."
"Why not?"
He chewed slowly, buying time. "I don't know what I want yet."
"Then find out."
"It's not that simple."
Her lips pressed together. "Do you think life waits for you to figure it out? You just sit here, day after day, doing nothing. What are you waiting for?"
He stared at his plate. "Can we not do this now?"
"When, then? You're almost nineteen, Jaegun. You barely passed school. You don't want to study, you don't want to work—what's your plan?"
He swallowed hard, throat dry. "I don't have one."
Her hand trembled slightly as she set the cup down. "You're wasting yourself. I don't know how to help you anymore."
That hurt more than yelling ever did.
"I'll figure it out," he said softly.
She stood, exhaled through her nose, and walked away without answering.
He sat there for a while after she left, the curry cold on his plate, the ticking of the wall clock suddenly too loud.
By the time Minho's beat-up sedan pulled up, night had draped itself over the neighborhood in a lazy blue. The streetlights flickered halfheartedly, illuminating driveways and quiet houses where other people's lives were neatly sorted and filed.
"Yo!" Minho honked twice. Dara leaned out the passenger window, waving a soda can. "Get in, sloth!"
He climbed in the back seat. The car smelled like cheap deodorant and fast food.
"Man, your mom still mad?" Minho asked, steering one-handed, music thumping low.
"When isn't she?"
"True."
Dara glanced back at him, eyes catching the passing streetlight. "You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"You always say that."
He smiled faintly. "Because it's true."
"Liar." She grinned, then turned back toward the window.
They drove past strip malls and quiet roads that gradually gave way to trees. The city glow faded behind them, replaced by darkness so thick it felt like stepping out of time.
Minho parked near a dirt trail, where distant laughter and the faint smell of smoke hinted that others had already arrived.
"Let's go," he said, grabbing a pack of beer from the trunk. "Tonight's about forgetting real life."
Jaegun followed, though part of him knew real life didn't stay forgotten—it just waited until the music stopped.
The clearing was alive with noise—music from a Bluetooth speaker, voices overlapping, the occasional shout of someone chasing someone else through the dark. A small fire burned in a metal barrel, throwing orange light on half-familiar faces from school.
Minho disappeared into the crowd instantly. Dara found a log and sat, pulling Jaegun beside her.
"Same as always," she muttered, watching the dancing chaos.
"Yeah."
She handed him a can. "Cheers to wasting time."
He clinked it half-heartedly. "Cheers."
They drank in silence for a while. The night hummed around them—crickets, laughter, music, all blurring into something almost comforting.
"You ever think about what comes next?" Dara asked suddenly.
He hesitated. "Every day."
"And?"
"I got nothing."
She nodded, as if she expected that. "You know, not knowing is fine. But staying still forever isn't."
He looked at her. "That sounds like something my mom would say."
"She's right, then."
He laughed softly. "You sound like you've got it figured out."
"I don't. I just… keep moving until I do."
He thought about that, the firelight flickering on her face, the way her eyes reflected the flames. Maybe that was what he was missing—momentum. He'd been sitting in the same spot so long he couldn't tell which way was forward anymore.
Across the clearing, Minho had climbed onto a fallen tree, leading a drunken cheer. The night stretched out endless and stupid and young.
For now, Jaegun let himself drift with it. The questions, the guilt, the heavy shape of his parents' disappointment—all of it could wait until morning.
He didn't know that tonight would change everything.
But that's how it always starts—quietly, with someone who has nowhere to go, finally deciding to follow the noise.