EGOIST (Sang Woo x Fem!OC) [ONGOING]

Last night, I had barely slept. It was such a strange feeling to find myself in bed as if nothing had happened. It felt like I spent a long time in those bunks that my bed suddenly felt foreign, yet I am home now.

It is not good to be back.

It feels different, yet nothing's changed. Same water stain in my ceiling, same untidy bed. But somehow, the mundanity of my life had turned into something more; a reason. It won't leave me.

Dissatisfaction is a recurring theme here, my feelings of contentment never last long. There is an abrupt, tragic stop to it all, that, in my bedrotting, I feel a full sense of comfort. But this place smells, I cannot get rid of it. I pay rent a little too high for a place like this, yet live by a weekly pay, and the patience of my landlord—a patience that I am sure is dwindling.

Mrs. Kim is a very kind woman. She was a previous landlord of mine, and took me in when I begged for a place to stay. She is an understanding woman, but I feel her slipping away; that my advantage of her kindness is something she merely tolerates. But she will never say anything, I know that about her.

She worries a lot—she worries about me. But her kids, whom I've witnessed grow old, never really took a liking to me. I understand. I would often sense this quiet judgement when I would pass by them, and hear them berate their mother from the other room. "You cannot let her treat you like this. You've been nothing but patient with her, but she couldn't even at least keep up with rent. How will you earn money? How will you feed your grandkids?"

"You have to understand that she's in a tough spot. Besides, she always pulls through."

"She's a month late. Again. How long will she be in a tough spot for?"

I also think they know that I hear them because when I encounter them on visiting days, they have this shameful look in their eyes.

But I still understand. Things should not forever be this way.

I look at the ceiling again, I realise the water stain had grown. I sigh, I turn in hopes that I'd fall asleep.

But I didn't.

Every night is a long journey to sunrise—a journey I must persist on. There is nothing else for me to do but close my eyes and hope to wake up in a different world. I am too tired to write, too awake to sleep. My mind has always been a circuit that never stops, and I pay the price for it. Then, in the morning, I'd be up after, say, two hours of sleep. I will get changed, drink my coffee, and step out for a smoke. Then, I go to work and do nothing but sit on my ass, hoping for the day to end.

I've lost a life. Somewhere in the middle, I must have done something wrong that my dreams had slipped out of my hands, into a plane I could never reach. I am almost 40 now, I cannot dream anymore. I don't have my youth that keeps me going, and I must forget about dreaming and focus on surviving. And then, there are the sharks.

This was years of chasing and hiding, and begging for more exemptions. But greedy people know no mercy, no empathy, and that my sacrifices for my father will forever be remembered as a big mistake.

My father was sick; dying. Working alone did not help him to survive, so my naive self stuck to the instant satisfaction of loaning, only to fall short. In the end, dad dies, and he left nothing for me but debt.

These dreams of mine, yet meant for a younger self, never really left me. I've been told before that I am not too old to do what I want. I can go back to grad school, I can become a teacher. But now I've learned that writing alone did not save me from mundanity, but instead left me burnt out and empty. I have no wisdom to share except tragedies I would not want the world to hear.