Minjae

The buses always arrived empty after midnight. Minjae sat on a metal bench beneath a dim bus stop sign, hunched over as if he was tired of even keeping his back straight. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and cigarette smoke lazily dissolved in the cold air. The lighter's flicker briefly illuminated his face—tired, with a black eye and a bandage on his neck.

You stood next to him, your hands in your pockets, silent. He was already smoking his second cigarette in a row. Cars rarely passed by. Somewhere in the distance, a 24-hour store flickered, and above the bus stop, a lamp crackled, ready to go out at any moment.

"Did you fight again?" you asked quietly.

Minjae chuckled without joy and ran his thumb over his broken knuckle.

— They started it.

You wanted to point out that it sounded like a schoolboy's excuse, but you remained silent. Because you could see he was barely holding on. There was silence for a few seconds. He took a deeper drag, throwing his head back. The smoke slowly escaped through his parted lips.

"You know..." his voice sounded hoarse. "Sometimes I think I hate this city."

You turned to him. Minjae was looking somewhere along the road, as if he was afraid to meet your eyes.

— These people. These streets. Everything is the same every day. As if it’s impossible to live normally here.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of the bench, but didn't throw it away right away—he just twirled it between his fingers. Then he suddenly laughed quietly. Tired. Almost broken.

— Let's go somewhere together?

You froze. For the first time, he looked directly at you. There was no usual coldness in his eyes—only endless weariness and something desperate, almost childish.

"Everything here is rotten..." he said more quietly. "If we stay, it will consume us too."

The bus pulled up at that very moment. The doors hissed open. But Minjae didn't even move, continuing to stare only at you.