Finally, the workday was over. My boss had spent the afternoon discussing plans to decorate the office for Christmas tomorrow, but I was far too drained to care. I just wanted to disappear into the quiet of the night.
I took my time walking back, my movements heavy.
Strangely, a small, cynical part of me was glad we hadn't been given a holiday for Christmas. If I were forced to celebrate, I'd have to pretend to be happy; at least at work, I could be busy.
"I'm home,"
I muttered as I stepped through the door.
Outside, the city lights had been blinding—a frantic, artificial glow that felt more intrusive than exciting.
"What are you going to eat?"
my grandmother asked immediately. It was a question that always grated on me.
Why did she ask every night, when we both knew we were eating whatever was already on the stove?
Sometimes, the sheer weight of it all—the repeating days, the mechanical routine from waking up to falling asleep—felt impossible to carry. Perhaps it was the forced cheer of the Christmas season that made my mood feel so sharp and irritable.
I bypassed the kitchen and went straight to my room. Without even changing out of my work clothes, I sank into the chair in front of my mirror. I stared at my reflection, the glass catching the shadows under my eyes.
"I wish..." I whispered to the empty room.
"I wish you would take me this time. Rather than being stuck here, I'd like to be lost on your side... just witnessing my memories instead of living here."
I sat there in the silence for a long time before finally finding the energy to change. My mother wasn't home yet, so it was just me and Grandma. I eventually wandered back out to the kitchen to engage in the necessary small talk.
I kept my words light and random; in this house, deep conversations had a habit of turning into arguments before you even realized they'd started.
"You look like you just came down from the snowy mountains," I teased, nodding at her heavy layers.
"I'm not young like you," she retorted, adjusting her wrap.
"It's freezing lately. A layer of clothes is the only thing that keeps the spirit in."
[She was wearing a long, indoor winter gown with a deep red scarf wrapped around her head. Despite her age, her skin was fair and glowing—she had always been meticulous about her self-care. The bindi on her forehead sat like a permanent, scarlet seal.]
"What are you two whispering about?" Mom's voice startled us as she walked through the door, shedding her jacket.
"You look like a pair of gossips."
"Haha, just talking, Mom. Just talking."
The evening dissolved into the usual rhythm of chores and quiet movements until, finally, I was allowed the sanctuary of my bed. I reached for my phone, the screen illuminating my face. Two notifications stared back at me: one from Jennie, and one from that boy in K-city.
"Jennie and him again," I sighed.
I looked at the names for a long moment, then set the phone facedown. I was far too drained to hold a conversation, let alone a life.