The alarm buzzed at 6:03 AM—not a minute earlier, not a minute later. Mira Yoon exhaled into the silence of her apartment, counting each breath the way Dr. Lee had taught her. In. Out. In. Out. By the sixth exhale, her fingers were already curling around her phone, scanning emails before her feet even hit the floor.
Breakfast was a protein shake gulped between looping her hair into a tight bun. The subway ride was spent memorizing client portfolios, her knee bouncing in a nervous rhythm she'd never quite outgrown. She used to stutter when ordering coffee, her throat locking around the words. Now, she rehearsed them under her breath before stepping up to the counter.
"Large. Iced. Americano. No sugar."
Four words. Four beats. No room for error.
The barista—someone new, with a silver lip ring—smiled as he slid the cup toward her. "Rough morning?"
Mira blinked. Had she been tugging her earlobe again?
"Just the usual corporate warzone," she said, forcing a laugh.
Her desk was a monument to chaos. Sticky notes in pink, yellow, and green—color-coded by urgency—covered every available surface. A half-dead succulent (a gift from her only friend, Seo-yeon) wilted in the corner, its leaves drooping like it, too, was exhausted.
Mr. Han appeared without warning, his tie perpetually crooked. "Yoon," he barked, tossing a file onto her already teetering stack. "The Park account. They want revisions by Friday."
Friday was tomorrow.
Mira opened her mouth—
"Y-yes, I—"
No.
She clenched her fists under the desk, nails biting into her palms. Not here. Not now.
Mr. Han didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he'd learned not to mention it.
Seo-yeon's call came at 9:17 PM, just as Mira was debating whether a fourth coffee would kill her or just make her see God.
"Tell me you're not still at the office."
Mira eyed the mountain of paperwork. "I'm… at a spa?"
A snort. "Liar. You're worse than that guy I dated who said he 'worked in finance' and actually just sold gym memberships."
Mira smiled, leaning back in her chair. This was their rhythm.
Seo-yeon had crashed into her life two years ago—literally—spilling an iced matcha down Mira's white blouse. Instead of apologizing, she'd laughed and blotted the stain with napkins, her diamond nose stud glinting under the café lights.
"You're the first person in this city who didn't recognize me," she'd said. "Refreshing."
Now, their friendship lived in midnight voice notes and rushed lunches between photoshoots and client meetings.
"You're coming to my show this weekend," Seo-yeon announced. "No excuses. I'll drag you out myself if I have to."
Mira hummed, noncommittal. They both knew she'd cancel last minute.
By 10:30 PM, the office was a ghost town.
Mira's fingers ached from typing, her vision blurring at the edges. Somewhere between the third contract and the fifth, she'd started chewing the inside of her cheek, a habit Dr. Lee kept scolding her for.
"You're treating your body like an enemy," she'd said last session. "When was the last time you let yourself just… stop?"
Mira hadn't had an answer.
She glanced at the window—the city lights smearing into gold streaks—and for a second, something hollow yawned in her chest.
When was the last time she'd looked at anything without calculating how much time it stole from her to-do list?
Her phone buzzed.
Mom: Mrs. Kim's son is visiting from LA. Nice boy! Let's all have dinner :)
Mira groaned and typed back:
Me: Is this the same 'nice boy' who set his dorm on fire making ramen?
She tossed her phone aside before the reply could come.
Outside, rain began to patter against the glass.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice whispered:
Stutterbird.
She stiffened.
Not now.
Mira shoved the thought away and reached for the next file.
---
The rain had turned into a downpour by the time Mira dashed out of the office building, her thin blazer doing little to shield her from the cold. She cursed under her breath, gripping her bag tighter as she sprinted toward the neon glow of the 24-hour convenience store across the street.
Her shoes splashed through puddles, the icy water seeping into her socks. She hated the rain—always had. It reminded her of days spent waiting alone under the school awning, watching other kids run off with their friends while she stood there, silent.
A flash of movement caught her eye.
Near the bus stop, a man stood beneath a black umbrella, his face obscured by the shadows and the rain. But something about the way he held himself—the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—made her breath hitch.
No. It couldn't be.
She blinked, and when she looked again, he was gone.
Mira shook her head, pushing the thought away. Stress. Exhaustion. Whatever. She shoved open the convenience store door, the bell jingling overhead as she stepped into the fluorescent light.
The store was empty except for the cashier, a bored-looking college student scrolling through his phone. Mira grabbed a bottle of water and a packaged kimbap from the refrigerated section—dinner, if she could even call it that.
As she waited in line, her phone buzzed.
Seo-yeon: You're still at the office, aren't you?
Mira hesitated before typing back:
Me: No. I'm out.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Seo-yeon: Liar. Send me a pic or I'm calling.
Mira rolled her eyes but snapped a quick photo of the rain-streaked store window, the neon sign outside casting a pink glow over everything.
Her phone rang immediately.
"What the hell, Yoon?" Seo-yeon's voice was sharp, but Mira could hear the worry underneath. "It's almost midnight. You better be going home after this."
"I will," Mira muttered, handing the cashier a few bills.
"You say that every time."
Mira tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder as she grabbed her things. "I'm fine. Just needed food."
"You're not fine. When was the last time you slept more than four hours? Or ate an actual meal?"
Mira didn't answer. She stepped back out into the rain, the cold hitting her like a slap.
Seo-yeon sighed. "You're going to kill yourself like this."
"Dramatic."
"I'm serious. Remember what Dr. Lee said? You can't just—"
Mira froze.
Across the street, beneath the awning of a closed café, the man with the umbrella was back. This time, he was turned slightly toward her, his profile just visible in the dim streetlight.
Her stomach dropped.
That stance. That stillness.
It was the same way he used to stand by the school gates, watching the other kids without ever joining in.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
"Mira? You there?"
"Yeah," she said faintly. "I—I think I just saw someone."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
A car sped by, spraying water onto the sidewalk. When it passed, the man was gone again.
Seo-yeon was quiet for a beat. "...You okay?"
Mira exhaled, forcing herself to move. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Go home. Now."
---
Flashback
Ten years ago.
The slide's metal was cold against her back, the laughter of the other kids echoing across the playground. Mira pressed her knees to her chest, her throat burning with words she couldn't say.
Then—a rustle.
A boy crouched in front of her, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He didn't speak. Just held out a carton of strawberry milk.
When she didn't take it, he set it on the ground between them and walked away.
She never saw his face clearly.
But she remembered his shoes. Black, with a small scuff on the left toe.