Ethan Park woke up to the sound of his alarm choking itself to death.
It was the cheap kind of alarm—one sharp electronic tone that drilled straight into the skull without warning, as if designed by someone who hated sleep and everyone who needed it. Ethan slapped at his phone blindly, missed, groaned, then finally silenced it with a heavy thumb.
For a few seconds, he stayed still.
Not because he was tired—though he was—but because this was the part of the day where nothing had gone wrong yet. The air was quiet. The ceiling fan hummed. Morning light leaked in through the curtains in thin, dusty stripes.
Ordinary.
He exhaled and sat up.
The room was small, but lived-in. Posters taped crookedly to the wall. A desk cluttered with half-used notebooks and pens that worked only when they felt like it. Clothes draped over the chair because folding them felt like lying to himself about future motivation.
Ethan swung his legs off the bed and stood.
His reflection in the mirror looked back at him with the same familiar indifference. Messy hair. Sleep-heavy eyes. A face that didn't demand attention or inspire concern.
"Yeah," he muttered to himself. "Figures."
Downstairs, the smell of toast and frying eggs drifted up, pulled along by the quiet clatter of morning routines. His mother was already awake—she always was. Ethan didn't remember a time when she wasn't somehow ahead of the day, like she'd rehearsed it the night before.
He pulled on a hoodie, grabbed his bag, and headed down.
"Morning," his mom said without turning around.
"Morning," Ethan replied.
His father sat at the table scrolling through his phone, glasses perched low on his nose. He glanced up briefly. "You're up on time."
"Don't get used to it."
A corner of his father's mouth twitched. "Bus leaves in ten."
Ethan nodded and reached for a piece of toast.
The conversation ended there—not because anything was wrong, but because nothing needed to be said. This was how mornings worked in the Park household. Functional. Predictable. Safe.
Ethan liked that.
---
The bus ride was uneventful in the way only routine could be.
Same seats. Same people. Same low hum of overlapping conversations that never quite formed anything meaningful. Ethan sat near the middle, one earbud in, music playing softly enough that he could still hear the world if he needed to.
He didn't.
Outside, the city slid by in familiar fragments: convenience stores, closed shutters, faded billboards advertising things no one seemed to buy anymore. He watched reflections in the window instead of the road.
His own face ghosted over the scenery.
At school, the halls buzzed with noise and movement. Lockers slammed. Shoes scuffed. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else argued about homework they definitely hadn't done.
Ethan moved through it all without resistance.
"Yo."
He turned to see Benny standing beside him.
Benny Park—no relation, despite the last name coincidence. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. The kind of guy people remembered vaguely but never fully, like a background character who occasionally stepped into focus.
"Hey," Ethan said.
"You finish the math assignment?"
Ethan grimaced. "Define 'finish.'"
Benny snorted. "Figures."
They walked together to class, not shoulder to shoulder, but close enough that their paths naturally aligned. It wasn't something either of them had decided. It just… happened.
Math passed in a blur of numbers and half-hearted attention. English dragged. Chemistry smelled faintly of disinfectant and burnt wires.
Normal.
At lunch, Ethan sat with the same group he always did. Conversations drifted from weekend plans to teachers they disliked to rumors that barely qualified as interesting.
Someone complained about the cafeteria food.
Someone else made a joke about the principal.
Ethan laughed at the right moments.
He didn't feel fake doing it. He didn't feel especially real either. Just present.
And that was enough.
---
After school, he walked home instead of taking the bus.
It wasn't a conscious decision. He just… didn't feel like being packed into another moving box full of noise. The afternoon air was warm, the kind that pressed gently against the skin without demanding attention.
He kicked a pebble along the sidewalk, watching it bounce and spin.
At a crosswalk, he stopped and waited for the light.
A man stood beside him—middle-aged, tired-looking, phone pressed to his ear. He spoke quietly, frustration leaking through his tone.
"Yeah, I know. I know. I told you I'd handle it."
The light changed.
They crossed.
Ethan forgot about the man immediately.
---
At home, he dropped his bag by the stairs and headed straight for his room. Homework came first—not because he loved it, but because procrastination felt better when it was intentional.
He worked through assignments methodically, pausing occasionally to stare at nothing in particular.
At one point, he checked the time.
5:42 PM.
Later than he expected.
He shrugged it off and kept going.
Dinner passed much like breakfast had. Casual conversation. Weather complaints. His mother asking if he'd thought about colleges yet.
"I've got time," Ethan said.
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
She smiled, but there was something in her eyes—concern, maybe. Or just the weight of watching time move forward regardless of what anyone wanted.
Afterward, Ethan retreated back to his room.
He lay on his bed, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly. Messages. Videos. Things that barely registered before being replaced by the next thing.
At some point, he stopped scrolling.
He wasn't sure why.
The room was quiet again.
The ceiling fan hummed.
Light from the hallway spilled under his door.
Ordinary.
Ethan rolled onto his side and stared at the wall.
For a fleeting moment—a blink, barely long enough to notice—he had the strange sensation that the day was… complete. Like it had reached a natural stopping point, even though it clearly hadn't.
The feeling passed.
He checked the time again.
10:11 PM.
"Huh," he murmured. "Thought it was later."
He plugged his phone in and set it on the desk. The screen went dark.
Ethan turned off the light and lay back, hands folded loosely on his chest.
Tomorrow would be the same.
School. Lunch. Homework. Sleep.
That was fine.
That was good.
As he drifted toward sleep, one last thought crossed his mind—soft, unformed, easy to dismiss.
I should probably write things down more.
He didn't know why he thought that.
And by the time sleep took him, the thought was already gone.