Chapter Text
Song: Saturn - Sleeping at last
“Some survivors carry their death within them – just more slowly.”
– Ocean Vuong
Prologue
Sometimes, Felix wishes he could forget what silence feels like.
Not the peaceful kind, the one that drifts through the window in the early morning, when the day hasn't quite begun.
Not the comfortable quiet after a long conversation either, or the silence between two breaths, when you pause briefly to inhale.
No. The other kind.
The cold one. The one that swallows everything.
The one that smells like iron and burning rubber.
The one that makes your own body feel unfamiliar, while sirens scream somewhere in the distance and no one reacts.
Like the silence that engulfed him back then, when everything he knew collapsed into a single moment— the ringing in his ears, the blood on his forehead, the numbness in his left leg.
It’s been years.
And still, he wakes up every night with their voices in his ears and the taste of iron on his tongue.
That all-consuming, doom-laced silence has settled inside him like a leftover shadow.
It’s there even when he laughs.
Even when he greets people politely.
Even when he takes orders and serves tea with a friendly smile.
Today is one of those days.
The air in his room is cool, heavy, and quiet – just like every morning.
The light outside is still faint, a kind of false dawn that promises brightness but never quite delivers, as thick rainclouds already drift across the autumn sky.
The clock reads 4:17 a.m.
He wakes long before the alarm goes off.
The echo of fading screams in his ears, traces of tears on his face.
A ghost that knows everything.
A body that protects him and lets memories blur as his eyes open.
It’s far too early. But sleep won’t come again.
His left thigh throbs dully – phantom pain from the prosthesis,
like it often does before a weather change.
But he ignores it.
Just like he’s learned to ignore almost everything related to himself.
With practiced movements, he pulls back the blanket
and swings his legs out of bed.
The click of the prosthesis locking in place is almost comforting –
a sound that proves everything is where it should be,
even if he himself isn’t.
He showers too long, too hot.
Gets dressed without thinking.
Black. Grey. Quiet.
Covers his freckles under three layers of makeup.
Hides the softness.
Because soft things can be hurt.
He doesn’t look in the mirror.
And that’s for the best.
In the kitchen, it smells like brewed tea – faint and familiar.
The coffee machine hums. The window is open.
Outside, Seoul is already stirring – buses, delivery vans, early voices, the first commuters heading into their bleak routines.
But up here, above the small café, the city still seems to be asleep.
Felix stands with his back to the table.
A half-full coffee cup, shoulders straight, gaze empty.
He doesn’t really drink.
He counts tasks. Organizes the day.
Lecture. Project report. Helping out at the café. Night shift. Music. Maybe.
Don’t think. Just do.
Don’t feel. Just function.
His grandmother will be awake soon.
Her footsteps are soft but steady.
She calls him “Bok-ah,” with that mix of tenderness and quiet concern only a grandmother can feel.
She’ll cup his face in her wrinkled, gentle hands and look her grandson in the eyes.
She’ll tell him to sleep more.
That he looks tired.
That he needs to rest.
And he’ll nod. Like the dutiful grandson he is.
He’ll say, “Don’t worry, Halmoni. I’m taking care of myself.”
With a smile that could almost be believable.
One that hides a lie that would break her if she knew.
She doesn’t know he works at night.
That he barely eats. Barely sleeps.
That he wears his father’s old watch even though the glass is cracked – like everything inside him.
Or his mother’s delicate silver chain, which once felt like it stole the breath from his lungs in the worst moments.
But that’s okay.
That’s the price he pays for being alive.
And that’s how it should be.
If you saw him, you might think he’s just an overworked student.
Polite. Punctual. Neat.
Quiet, but kind.
You wouldn’t notice how carefully he avoids making noise.
How he scans for exits the moment he enters a room.
How he holds his breath whenever something loud breaks the silence.
You wouldn’t really see him.
Because Felix has learned how to fold himself out of the world.
How to live without breathing.
How to exist without being.
He knows what’s coming today.
And tomorrow.
And the day after that.
He knows how many minutes the walk to campus takes.
How many customers will likely show up at lunchtime.
How many hours his shift at the 7/11 will be.
He knows that sometime around 2 a.m., he’ll be sitting in front of the microphone again – makeup on, hidden in shadows, with a voice that finally says what he can’t.
FRECKLES.
His secret self.
A few clicks. A new song. Maybe.
Or maybe just silence.
What no one knows:
That all of this – every step, every action, every ounce of control – is just a desperate attempt not to lose himself.
What Felix doesn’t know:
That somewhere in this city, in a small shared apartment full of voices, laughter, chaos, and quiet battles, a few students are living who are still strangers – but who will soon begin to see him.
Really see him.
Not as the diligent student.
Not as the café worker.
Not as the polite, quiet boy with tired eyes.
But as the boy who has lost himself – and who needs, more than anything, to be found.