Every Passing Day

A stack of cardboard boxes flattened and folded in the corner. While the rest remain untouched, their contents too private or too unimportant for you to unpack. You’ve already done as much as you could.

The sharp hiss of a soju cap snapping open breaks the pause.

“One more?” Chaewon, already pouring before your answer. Your glass is not even empty yet.

“Chaewon—this is too much,” you murmur. Not because you’re drunk—though you’re not exactly sober. “You said it’d be a light drink.”

Scoffing, she raised her own glass. “Please. This isn’t even half your limit.” She tilts back and gulps. The drink she had just poured gone in an instant. “It’s a celebration. New apartment. And, thanks to you, unpacking is almost done in a single day.”

A sigh, picking up your glass, and down the rest in one go. The burn barely registers. You set it down. “There. Empty. Done.” Already fitting your jacket. “Thanks for the drinks. Now, if that’s everything, I have to go.”

With a frown, she reaches out as you start to rise. Her hand clamps onto your sleeve—not gentle. “What? Why? You can’t leave yet. Why are you in such a rush?””

Force and need shows on her grip. Either you stay, or it rips.

“All day, you were rushing,” she continues. “You didn’t even stop for a proper lunch. We could’ve taken two days to move, but no—you were hellbent on finishing everything today. So why?”

“I told you,” evenly, you say. “I can’t help tomorrow.” You place your hand over hers, firm enough to show you mean it. “Let go, Chaewon. You’re drunk, You’ve had enough.”

“22nd…” Her voice softened but it wasn’t relaxed. “Why can’t you help? Why won’t you stay?”

In awe of her question you almost couldn’t speak. “Chaewon, are you serious?” You ask, trying not to snap. “Do you even remember what tomorrow is?”

“I’m not asking what,.” She snaps first. “I’m asking why!”

Her voice rises, her grip tightening around your sleeve. “I know exactly what day it is, I know what 22nd is, it’s the day it happened, it’s the day everything went to shit!”

Her hands slide from your sleeve, only to grasp your arm—tighter now, shaking.

“It’s the day you start to change!”

She steps in, her chest heaving, voice trembling with frustration and pain.

“It’s the day you always disappear!”

Her fist presses against your chest—meant to hit you, maybe, but there’s no strength behind it. Just the weight of everything left unsaid.

You swallow hard, throat burning.

“It’s been years,” she whispers now, the fire in her eyes dimming into something broken. “I’m not asking you to forget her… but please— please —move on.”

“I… I am,” you say, but it’s too quiet, too unconvincing.

A smile from a cruel joke formed on her face. “You can’t even say it properly,” she says. “You reserve that day every year. But you don’t visit her. You still stay in that apartment like she’s going to come back. Move in here—this place is cheaper, better, more space. No rent. Just—”

Her hands slides over your shoulders, then cup your face—gentle, pleading. “You disappear every time. And I’m scared that one day, you won’t come back. That I’ll lose you, too.”

“Chaewon…”

She leans in, lips trembling against yours. “Don’t do this alone. I have regrets too. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here when it happened. If I’d known, I—”

“I have to go.” You pull back.

“Just tonight,” she whispers, pressing desperate kisses against your neck. “Stay. Please.”

Her hands fumble at your buttons. You catch them, stop her.

“Chaewon…” you say quietly, and push her back—not harshly, but final.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I have to go.”

You turn your back. The air feels colder as you leave her standing there—motionless, mouth parted, a million unsaid things clinging to her silence.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You head out into the cold night, footsteps quick, shoulders hunched against the chill. You don’t run, but every part of you wants to.

You check your phone. The time. Too close.

Midnight is crawling up your spine.

Your pace walks the line between urgency and dread. There’s no one waiting at home—no deadline, no task undone—just a pull in your chest, instinctive and sickening: You have to be there before the clock hits midnight.

By the time you reach the apartment, your breath is uneven. You fumble with the keys. The door creaks open, swallowing you in familiar silence. You don’t bother turning the lights on.

The smell—stale air, faint dust, dishes in the sink you forgot this morning. Your shoes crunch slightly over some junk mail scattered near the doorway. A jacket you failed to hang lies crumpled on the floor. The apartment is quiet, but not clean. You kept telling yourself you’ll clean it, but you never did.

You step over a pile of clothes to reach the bedroom. The hallway is dim, lit only by the soft, red glow of the clock in the distance. The bedroom isn’t much better. Bed unmade, closet door half-open like it gave up halfway through the day just like you.

Your breath still smells faintly of alcohol. You shuffle into the bathroom, rinse your mouth with something minty—mouthwash, then water. You brush, rinse again. Stare at your reflection a beat too long. The lines under your eyes are starting to settle in like old tenants. You spit, wipe your mouth dry with your sleeve.

Back in the bedroom, you sit at the edge of the bed first. The mattress creaks under your weight. Your eyes fall again to the red numbers glowing across the room.

Then slowly, you crawl under the covers, pulling them up to your legs. You don’t lie down. Just lean back against the headboard, pillow behind you, upright—waiting.

Your eyes fix on the numbers burning in the dark.

11:57 PM.

You exhale, steadying yourself. You’re on time—barely. You don’t know why you keep doing this. You’ve told yourself it’s tradition.

A ritual. Maybe it’s for closure.

At first, you didn’t believe it. It was too good to be true. Then you learned the truth: it probably is true, because it never felt good.

You tried to rationalize it. Tried to fight it. Pretended it was a dream, a breakdown, a glitch in your grief.

Now? You just sit here. Already given up.