I sat by the window every day, writing endlessly. The window must have faced south. The silence that filled the room wasn’t cold but warm, thanks to the sunlight always pouring in. I remember the first time I entered that space, holding my breath as I stepped through the thick metal door, only to feel an unexpected sense of comfort that made me exhale deeply.
Wherever I went, people held my arm as if I might fall. It made me laugh, wondering what good that would do. But I never showed how I really felt. They came to see me twice a day. I joked and smiled every time. They smiled back.
One day, I noticed girls around my age loitering outside the door, peeking in to get a look at me. Someone suggested, “Andie, why don’t you try spending time with them?” So I went out at 8 p.m., when they usually gathered.
Jazz trickled out of an old speaker. Two large desks, like the kind you’d find in a college lecture hall, stood in the middle of the room. Everyone was sitting around them.
The silence was broken by the boy sitting across from me. “Your hair’s really short, nuna.”¹ It was short—too short, actually, after a recent BTS-inspired haircut. I smiled awkwardly, running my fingers through my hair.
“It suits you,” he added. We were all wearing masks. How could he possibly know? Whatever—it was just small talk.
Then the girl next to him spoke. “Hyunsoo writes poetry. Show her your collection. He’s really talented.” We leaned in and passed around the little book he pulled from his bag. He was heartbreakingly untalented. So I chose silence.
Hyunsoo excitedly told us that he played guitar and wrote songs. As he spoke, I could feel my mood sinking.
We didn’t ask much about each other. Still, we sprinkled in coded phrases—hints that revealed just enough to guess one another’s background. Perhaps it was our way of saying, Please, don’t look down on me.
“How long have you been here?”
“Oh… I just got here yesterday.”
“I see.”
We never asked why anyone was there. Sometimes, someone would tug at their sleeve to hide their wrist. And in that gesture, meaning would surface. We’d look away, pretending not to notice.
When morning came, we went about our own routines. I ate breakfast, then did bodyweight exercises.
The elderly woman who often sat beside me would grumble, “Why on earth are you here?” Well… I had never felt such an intense desire to live. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.
There’s an app that gives you 100 won if you walk 10,000 steps a day. Kei walked all over the place. Did she need that 100 won? Maybe she, too, just wanted to live. And really, how different is that from me doing pushups in the morning?
Every time I saw the layered shadows of life and death stacked upon each other, I would tell myself I had to get out of this place as soon as possible—by living each day with unwavering diligence.
There was a middle-aged woman who was always brimming with irritation. Her husband called her several times a day. His gentle voice, audible even from across the receiver, was warm enough to melt anyone’s heart. But on this end of the line, things weren’t so simple. Her replies, laced with nagging frustration, were so harsh they bruised even my own mood. “She’s just… like that. It’s her personality.”
Eventually, I snapped. I yelled and slammed the door behind me. “You’re right, Andie,” muttered the grandmother in the bed across from mine. But what exactly was the problem? Could her suffering possibly rival my own? The bitterness lingered. Through a crack in the door, her voice slipped out: “I can’t remember the color of our living room couch.” Unfazed by my outburst, she continued repeating the same words again and again.
The days began to feel unbearably stagnant. Still, I got along well with the grandmother across from me. As night fell, she would be overtaken by a burning pain that spread through her entire body. At the sound of her groans, they busied themselves trying to soothe her. Whenever she said her body felt hot, I took a macaron from the box and placed it in her hand. She had told me she had never had a macaron before.
Her pain showed no sign of easing, and eventually, she had to leave. On the morning of her last day, I put all the remaining macarons from the box into her bag. Her daughter thanked me and bought me a red bean bun. When I said, “Goodbye, Grandma. Take care,” she replied, “Andie, seeing young people with tattoos doesn’t look very good. Promise me you’ll never get a tattoo.”
Even now, my body remains without a single scar.
Inside this place, time flowed strangely. I came here because of a specific incident, yet the memory had faded into something hazy, like a distant life. Perhaps I simply didn’t want to face the reality that would return the moment I stepped outside. So we all committed ourselves entirely to the now.
The older girls brought new hobbies every day—stringing beads, doing French embroidery. Packages piled up in the basement almost daily. They were kind enough to order one for me, too. “Andie, you should try it.” I kept failing at stitching a simple circle, over and over. But I liked that I could just focus on the task at hand, if only for a little while.
In the evenings, we secretly ordered sushi and left our meal trays untouched. No one questioned it—they’d just jot down a few notes and leave. I thought, If I could stitch French knots and eat sushi in secret, maybe I could manage. A part of me even wished it would never end.
“Are you going to marry your boyfriend?”
“Nah, I should date more first.”
Questions and answers, all teetering on the edge of uncertainty. Everything was uncertain. Even my attempts to end things definitively ended in blur and collapse.
Every night, they’d let us circle what we wanted for the next day’s meal. I constantly had indigestion. “This food can’t possibly upset your stomach,” they said. And yet, I often chose porridge. On better days, I’d circle the pricier special meal. There was something both ridiculous and pitiful about that moment—a tiny indulgence, absurd and strangely touching in its futility.
Small talk felt especially exhausting here. It felt like a poor investment—pouring energy into relationships that might evaporate tomorrow. We didn’t know much about each other. With our faces half-covered by masks, even what lay beneath the eyebrows remained a mystery. In some ways, I was relieved. It kept us from growing too fond of one another. Maybe that’s why I got pretty good at small talk—because I was entirely rooted in the present.
I don’t think I’ve ever lived so fully in the moment.
The day came when I had to return to the world outside. I left earlier than most. One of the girls who used to share her embroidery thread grabbed my hand and asked for my contact information. I shook my head. “Then at least give me your email?” she pleaded. I smiled and said, “Someday, we’ll bump into each other in some waiting room. I’ll say hello then.”
That was a lie. We didn’t even know what each other looked like. And this place was a revolving door for countless people every day. Only then did she let go of my hand, with a look of resignation.
1. A Korean honorific used by men to address older women.
