It was raining. Rain that had been falling since who knows when streamed down the apartment windows. The clock pointed to eleven at night, and the living room was dimly lit only by the blue glow of the television.

Han Wangho was curled up on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. The beer can in his hand was already his third or fourth, and empty cans rolled around haphazardly on the table.

His phone screen flickered on for a moment and then went dark. There were no notifications from anyone. Not from work, not from friends, not from anyone. Just a single spam text that glowed lonely before vanishing.

Han Wangho's eyes were rimmed with red. He hadn't been crying. It was just the face of someone desperately holding back the urge to cry. A night where words were swallowed, and swallowed again, until they finally reached a breaking point.