I have a life, it goes on like this;

At 5 am, I would wake up from the sleep that never included a dream. I’d simply open my eyes, but would need 30 seconds a bit longer because usually I would stare at the ceiling, repeating the schedules of my day that repeat every day.

15 minutes later I would be ready, buttoning my shirt, tie dangled around my neck loosely, hair a bit disheveled but that’s okay, it never took long to comb it tidily. From mirror in the bathroom, I’d move to the table, I’d frown if my newspaper haven’t gotten there. I’d drink milk, one tall glass in one go. I never spilled it. I always drink it while sitting. There is always a TV planted in the wall but I never turned it on in the morning. The red on it would blink back at me.

My days always start in simple patterns, they go like this;

There would always be numbers, graphics, colours and texts. They’re on the papers on my desk placed right in the middle inside my cubicle. They’re on my computer. They’re on the large screen in the meeting room. They didn’t start in bright golden like the colour of sunlight penetrated through the window, they started in one of primary colours. Red means the rates of buying points. Blue means the rates of selling points. Yellow means anything included in force majeur. Those three colours had always been fighting for dominance. They were born from the higher ups of the company I worked in. I’m not included in creating them, but I get paid from counting the numbers those three colours produced.

There would always be phone calls, faximiles, emails, letters, proposals or maybe unread documents. If it’s related with the numbers I have to count, one of them would get to my desk. They usually contain some lines, easy lines, easy commands that I’d understood immediately; calculate this, analyze that, include the rates of this appointment, write down the payment of that contract, etcetera.

My days would continue its simple patterns like this;

At 1 pm, I would tear open the bread I’ve bought before entering the office. I like bread, because I could eat it while continuing to count. Bread on the left, the right hand would hover over keyboard or mouse, clicking away, editing away. The phones would be still ringing at this hour, they never stopped. The words I was typing sometimes would get blurred. The sounds of my clicking mouse blended with footsteps hurrying in between cubicles. They’d be going to a room in 5^th floor. I would still stay here, counting and editing.

My days would be ended after the numbers had stopped dancing around the papers on my desk.

But, if I don’t have to lie about that, my life actually would go like this;

At 5 am, I would wake up from the sleep that never comes unless I drink my sleeping pills. I’d simply open my eyes, because often times sleeps actually never claimed me.

15 minutes later I would stand in front of my mirror, who would reflect someone foreign. From mirror in the bathroom, I’d move to the table, because if I stayed a bit longer than necessary, I would remember a name I used to have for the person on that surface. I’d frown if my newspaper haven’t gotten there, because then I don’t have something to fill my head with something else other than the buzzes of my fridge, of the cars passing by, of the people murmuring nearby. I’d drink milk, one tall glass in one go, because it felt gross drinking plain taste in this early morning. I always drink it while sitting, because if I were standing I knew I would want to puke it out. There is always a TV planted in the wall but I never turned it on in the morning. The red on it would blink back at me.

There would always be numbers, graphics, colours and texts. Initially, they were on the papers on my desk placed right in the middle inside my cubicle. On my computer. On the large screen in the meeting room. They never started in bright golden like the colour of sunlight penetrated through the window, they started in one of primary colours. I see them in three rattling bottles in my kitchen cabinet. Red is for my throbbing head. Blue is for my ragged breath. Yellow is the colours spluttering out of my mouth, signaling the rejection of my body.

The numbers are always everywhere. I see them on the bills that came to my apartment. I see them on the crushed paychecks. I see them on a crumpled paper. I see them in the TV. They have this one similar pattern; often times presented unsatisfyingly.

Before the phone calls, faximiles, emails, letters, proposals or maybe unread documents, there was a name. Before the numbers I have to count, there were three syllables I would always remember; Bang Yong Guk.  

Before the phone calls, faximiles, emails, letters, proposals or maybe unread documents, at 1 pm, I would stop counting, making some cheap ramyun cup and eating it while lying easily to my mother on the phone and assuring her that his son had been eating regularly and no, he always eats properly ofcourse he never ran out of money and cutting out his meals into something cheaper. I would ignore the phones that would be still ringing at this hour, they never stopped anyway. I heard footsteps hurrying in between cubicles. They’d be going to a room in 5^th floor. I would still stay here, would still prefer exchanging one or two words with my mother on the phone.

My days would be ended after 5, I would be smiling, used to think that tommorrow surely would be better than today. That was before the phone calls, faximiles, emails, letters, proposals or maybe unread documents, coming and made me forgetting about Bang Yong Guk.

And if I’m carrying it on without lying, it would continue like this;

My fourth spring would come. The cherries would bloom. I remembered I ever celebrated it eating Dango somewhere in Japan. Here, on the present time, from the inside of the moving train, people came and go.

Somewhere around 8 am, in between hurried footsteps, reds would be splashed across my desk, across the papers and numbers I was working on, staining my crisp white buttoned shirt, staining my silver tie that never loosened. I would look up, then found a pair of wide eyes stared at me in horror. My eyes would dart to an empty plastic bowl on a hand that stopped awkwardly mid-air. I would sniff a scent of ddeokbokki. I saw a name tag; Jung Daehyun. That was your name. You’d apologized profusely after that, running around looking for a spare shirt for me.

That had took 20 minutes longer for me staying in the bathroom that would lead to 20 minutes late for delivering the reports dued today that also would lead to 20 minutes late for eating dinner before my Tylenol. I didn’t tell you that. You didn’t ask. So I also didn’t tell you my name. Nobody had remembered before.

The next day after that day, you would appear once again, this time without spilling anything on me. Yonggukie-hyung I’m sorry for yesterday, you had said that day, putting a tall carton of plain milk on my desk before smiling and skipping away. I’d drank it while standing.

Somewhere in between 12 pm and 1 pm of today, I would recount the earlier happenings like this;

My fourth spring had came, it means winter would come after the summer and fall afterwards. I don’t like spring. Spring means pink on the cherries that would bloom. They would wilt and die in the end. I thought about that, mulled it over and over while sitting inside a moving train, where people would come and go.

I didn’t know there would be a different pattern of those hurried footsteps near my cubicle. I didn’t know there would be red splashed across my desk. I didn’t know there would be you, who knew my name. You’d sounded scared, I didn’t know why, but then you said you’re new here, so sunbaenim, I’m really sorry I will search a spare shirt for you, before you went off to opposite direction of my cubicle.

Plain milk is white. Plain milk didn’t contain any red, blue or yellow. I was angry, because you delayed 20 minutes of my everything on that day, but the milk you gave the next day of that day, didn’t make me want to puke it out.

Carrying it on and arriving at today, now it goes like this;

It is still spring, the cherries are still blooming. The numbers are still dancing on the paper on my desk. They’re scattered around like those fallen petals. They’re dued at 5 pm. It is 9 am, one hour after I arrived at my cubicle. I didn’t sleep last night. I didn’t drink the blue one. I feel sweat on my back.

A knock startled me. It’s you. Daehyun. The new boy with ddeokpokki. You’re smiling. For breakfast, you said cheerily, shoving a white box to me. I caught a sniff of sweetness. I frowned, but you’re still smiling.

It is a roll cake. Strawberry. Red. I haven’t drank red in a while.

I caught your eyes staring at me from afar later on, then you smiled again, waving both of your hands. It reminds me of high school. Of fireflies in the hometown. Of warm dinner and spacious backyard. Of running through the sands. Of falling asleep under the stars, with a lullaby about passing a mountain. But there are no fireflies here, there are only city lights. There are only honking cars. There are only tall buildings. There are only sloshing coffee makers. There are only numbers. They all are grey. They all are red, blue and yellow. There is no Bang Yongguk. 

I sat down, closing my eyes. The red cake is abandoned.

I wonder many things about you;

I wonder why you always skip in your steps. I wonder why you always bring cakes for breakfast. I wonder why you’re always smiling. I wonder when that smile would get wiped off of your face. I wonder when you would start to forget all that was. I wonder when you would start to see numbers on your room. I wonder when you would finally decide that it’s not necessary to address me with my name anymore. I wonder when you would start to loose yourself. I wonder if that time has come, will you also have to get red and blue like me?

A/n: did I say oneshot? I lied, it'd be someshots

sorry for the late update