I’ve never liked mornings.
Not because mornings were bad. On the contrary, they were too peaceful for someone like me. Sunlight creeping through the gap in the curtains, the sound of cars beginning to fill the streets of Seoul, the aroma of coffee drifting up from the shop on the ground floor of my apartment—all of it always reminded me that the world kept turning, even though a part of me was still left behind somewhere, at some point in time I couldn’t change.
The alarm went off for the third time.
6:10 a.m.
I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning it off. I spoke to myself as usual—“Get up, Seo-yeon”—but the other part of me didn’t answer. I got up and walked toward the bathroom mirror.
The person staring back was a version of me I didn’t particularly want to see that morning. Messy, tangled hair. Slightly swollen eyes from lack of sleep. Pale skin from too many hours of work without enough rest.
I sighed. “What kind of doctor can’t even take care of herself?”
My quiet laugh sounded strange to my own ears.
By 6:47 a.m., I was in my car. The hospital was only twenty minutes away if traffic was feeling generous. I liked this time of day—twenty minutes when I could be myself without patients, families, or questions to deal with. Just me and the streets of Seoul, still half-asleep.
My phone vibrated at a red light.
A message from Dad.
I stared at the name without opening the message. The phone vibrated again. Then once more. I sighed and finally opened it.
When are you coming home?
My fingers tried typing a reply several times. I don’t know. I’m busy. But every word felt fake as I typed it, so in the end, I didn’t reply at all.
That was how our relationship had become—brief, cold, distant. We never fought the way ordinary people did. There were no raised voices. No slamming doors. No sharp words meant to hurt. We had simply, little by little, stopped talking, and I don’t know… I thought that was far more painful than anything.
I still remembered the last time I went home, three years ago. Standing in a dining room far too large for its handful of occupants, I’d found Dad sitting at the end of the table as usual. Calm. Immaculate. Not much of a talker.
“Dad.”
He lifted his head.
“Are you going to remain a doctor?”
It sounded like a simple question, but it wasn’t. I nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I was silent for a moment before answering. “Because I like saving people.”
Something glimmered in his eyes—perhaps disappointment, perhaps sadness, or perhaps he’d simply realized that his daughter had chosen a path he couldn’t follow. “All right.” That was all he said.
I left the next morning.
Since then, home had no longer felt like home.
I arrived at the hospital at 7:12 a.m. The moment I entered the changing room, one of my coworkers swooped in.
“Seo-yeon! The patient from the ER has been transferred.”
“The one from the accident last night?”
She nodded. “Stable.”
I smiled. That was what made this job meaningful—someone arrived on the verge of death, and a few hours later, they were still breathing. There was no feeling more satisfying than that.
The day passed in the routine of surgeries. Too many patients. Too little time. I forgot lunch again—how many times had I done that this week? When I left the operating room around four in the afternoon, my legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Han Seo-yeon.” The female doctor appeared in the break room, where I was resting my head against the sofa.
“Have you eaten?”
I said nothing. She knew from my silence.
“Oh, my God. You’re a doctor who’s always telling patients to watch their diets, but you keep forgetting to eat yourself.”
She set a sandwich in front of me.
“For me?”
“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”
I grabbed it immediately. “Thanks.”
She sat beside me. I could tell there was something she wanted to ask from the way she held her breath, full of hope.
“The man who came to the ER yesterday,” she said at last. “The one with the wound in his side. Tall. Cold-looking.”
I stopped chewing.
I knew who she meant. The man from that night. Kang Tae-jun.
For some reason, his name came straight to mind the moment she mentioned him.
“I don’t know who he is.”
“But you treated him.”
“Patients don’t have to tell us their entire life stories.”
My friend laughed. “But you’re curious.”
I didn’t answer. She grinned.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
I bit into my sandwich. “I’m just curious why he’s so stubborn.”
“Mysterious man,” she said in a tone that made me want to hit her.
I tried to ignore her look, but a few seconds later, I found myself thinking about him again. There was something strange about Kang Tae-jun—not his wound, not his cold attitude, but his eyes. I’d treated plenty of injured patients. Some cried. Some got angry. Some were afraid. But that man’s eyes were different, as if pain wasn’t unfamiliar to him, as if he’d been living with it for far too long.
I didn’t know what he did for a living. I didn’t know where he came from. I didn’t even know whether the name he’d given us was real. But I remembered one thing clearly—when I asked whether there was anyone we could contact if his condition worsened, he’d answered with only two words.
“No need.”
Two simple words that sounded so, so lonely.
I sighed. “Why am I thinking about him?”
My friend turned to me. “Thinking about who?”
I flinched. “No one.”
She narrowed her eyes in a way I knew all too well. I stood up quickly.
“I still have patients.”
“Seo-yeon.” She stopped me at the door. “You’re smiling.”
I touched my face. She was right. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled because of someone I’d only known for a few hours.
Night came sooner than I expected.
At 9:30 p.m., I finished work and left the hospital with a small bag over my shoulder. The Seoul air was fairly cold tonight. I stopped in front of the entrance, drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
My phone vibrated again.
This time, it wasn’t a message. It was a call.
Dad.
I almost declined it, but my finger touched the answer button without permission from my mind.
“Hello.”
Silence for a few seconds.
“Have you eaten?”
Such a simple question, yet coming from my father, it felt unfamiliar. I was silent for too long.
“Yes.”
“Don’t work too much.”
“Did you call just to say that?”
Silence again.
“I want to see you.”
I closed my eyes.
“I can’t.”
“When can you?”
I didn’t answer because I knew a small part of me wanted to go home, but every time home crossed my mind, something inside me resisted. Refused to go back. Refused to face it.
“I have to go.”
“Seo-yeon.”
I stopped.
“Dad misses you.”
There were so many things I wanted to say. That I missed him too. That I was angry. That I was disappointed. That I wanted everything to go back to the way it used to be. But all that came out was:
“Good night.”
I ended the call.
I stood alone on the sidewalk. City lights reflected off the still-slightly-wet pavement. I stared at my phone screen before slipping it into my bag.
I didn’t know that on that same night, several kilometers away, a man was receiving an order to come to the hospital where I worked. I also didn’t know that he was the same man who kept appearing in my thoughts.
Kang Tae-jun.
And what I knew least of all was that our meeting wasn’t a coincidence. Someone had arranged our first steps from the very beginning. Someone I had spent all this time trying to avoid. Someone who, as it turned out, was closer to me than I’d ever imagined.
But that night, I didn’t know.
I knew only one simple thing.
Tomorrow, I might see him again.
And for a reason I couldn’t explain, I was looking forward to it more than anything.