The collar of her blouse feels a little too tight for Yeonwoo to breathe. Her eyelids are heavy, and she knows she can probably fall asleep standing up if not for the dull ache in her feet. She usually wears flats instead of heels but there was an important meeting today and she wanted to feel empowered. (She feels anything but empowered now.) The workbag slung on her shoulder is weighty with work that she could not finish and the thought of all the reports she needs to complete sends a dull throb to her temple. She closes her eyes and sighs, rolling her shoulder to alleviate her tensed muscles.

Leaning against the train door, she looks outside, taking in the view. The sky now is a canvas dowsed with black, the darkness a sharp contrast to the tall buildings that illuminate their surroundings with light. There are no stars and the moon is partially hidden by clouds—Yeonwoo remembers a different sky in her hometown, dotted with bright stars, their light never outshined by high-rise buildings. When she was young, her father used to tell her that no matter where she went, if she felt lonely, all she needed to do was look up because they were all under the same sky. (Her father was wrong.)

The train doors open, snapping her out of her reverie. People flood in even though it is already long past the evening rush hour. The sudden influx of people causes Yeonwoo to move to the middle of the carriage. She glances around, noticing how exhausted everyone else in the train looks. They are all probably just like her: office workers who do lots of overtime, suffering from a chronic lack of sleep. It’s an exhaustion that is beyond physical tiredness, it is a kind of world-weariness, jadedness that comes with becoming an adult.

The train jerks and she stumbles, trying to regain her balance. She accidentally bumps into a man dressed in a white shirt, business pants and black tie. The man glares at her, clicking his tongue loudly in disapproval as he readjusts his tie. She can only mumble an apology, bowing slightly and lowering her head in embarrassment. Her eyes dart around; no one has even bothered to pay attention to their exchange, wrapped in their own world. She almost feels detached from reality—if not for the low rumble of the train and the vibrations beneath her feet, she might just think that she and the other passengers on the train are of different worlds.

The intercom sounds and announces the next train station. The train slows, jerking once more before completely stopping. Yeonwoo recognizes this train station as her stop and she squeezes past clothed bodies to exit the train. Once she steps on to the platform, she huffs a sigh, relieved that she is finally one step closer to her apartment. She can feel the sleep making its claim on her, lethargy already spreading through out her body.

Fishing out her transport card, she hurries towards the gantry, wanting to get home as soon as possible. Just before she leaves the train station, she passes by a young busker. Yeonwoo barely catches the sign placed beside the busker. I am an idol trainee. I dream to debut and perform on stage. Please listen to my voice.

The busker is a young and pretty thing, Yeonwoo notes. The girl has a voice that reminds Yeonwoo of Disney princesses who sashay in extravagant gowns and wear diamond crowns.  It is not difficult to imagine the busker on stage, performing as an idol. But it is also not difficult to walk on without batting an eyelash at the girl. After all, this girl is not her business. She has other pressing issues to attend to.

So Yeonwoo doesn’t stop, walks past the girl entirely, heels clicking as she joins the rest of the people leaving the train station. Gradually, the girl’s voice fades as Yeonwoo gets further and further away.

Soon, the girl’s voice is drowned out by the noise of the crowd—and the girl’s brief existence withers and wanes away, almost like she never existed.

///

Yeonwoo comes home to an empty apartment. It used to bother her—the emptiness, the silence, the darkness—but it has become routine. (Yeonwoo doesn’t know why it’s starting to bother her again.) She switches on the lights, setting her bag on her desk. Her fingers fly up to her collar, but she still feels just as stifled. Even though she takes a deep breath, it still feels like she has got her head under water.

Exhaling loudly, she fishes out her laptop, preparing herself to burn the midnight oil to finish her work. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she digs it out, sees a new text message. The message preview reads Yeonwoo, when are you coming home? Your father and I miss you. Her grip on the phone tightens at the message and she stares and stares at the words until the screen turns dark. Even if she no longer sees the message, she can feel the words being imprinted on to her skin, burning her like ice.

Home. Yeonwoo wants to go home.

Home means smiles that are filled with light, hugs that are long and warm, and eyes that only hold a love so real. But home also means saggy, wrinkled skin beside sunny smiles, thin, fragile arms around her waist during warm hugs, and deep-set crowfeet at the corner of eyes that still only ever hold love.

How can she frantically seek and shamelessly receive a love that she cannot return?

Inhaling sharply, she shakily places her phone on the table, running a trembling hand through her hair. She sits down, feeling her legs lose their strength. She buries her face in her hands, wishing she could run away, but reality anchors and weighs her down heavily still. Warm moisture gathers at the corners of her eyes and she laughs wryly—she thought she ran dry a long time ago.

She glances at her open laptop, sees the unfinished document. She watches the cursor blink for a long time, just stares as it appears and disappears like a signal, like it’s foreboding the persistent blank whiteness that comes after it.

Empty.

Yeonwoo only barely manages to tear her eyes away from her laptop screen when her phone vibrates continuously due to a call from work. A brief exchange with her colleague informs her that her department head is going off on a business trip, which means the deadline for her reports have been delayed. She ends the call by thanking her colleague, grateful for the short break that has been given to her.

Precariously tossing her phone on to the nearby couch, she is once again faced with her incomplete report. She sighs, deciding not to think too much about it and closing her laptop. She gets up and takes a quick shower before heading for bed.

She turns off all the lights as she climbs into bed, getting beneath her covers. It will never be as warm as the one back home, but this will have to do. She exhales, knowing that sleep will not come easily this time even though her body is desperate for rest. She closes her eyes, realizing how it wasn’t any different when her eyes were open. The darkness still surrounds her, chills her to the bone.

Yeonwoo wonders why she never leaves a light on for herself.

///

The ache is in her lower back now instead of her feet; Probably the result of sitting at her desk in one position for too long. Her fingers try to knead the spots where it hurts most but she suspects that the pain will not go away with a simple massage.

The train is significantly less packed today, mostly attributed to the fact that she is released early from work thanks to her boss being on a business trip. She hasn’t eaten anything since lunch and since she doesn’t need to work overtime, she can grab dinner instead of take-outs or sandwiches. She busies herself with considering what to eat because she knows that if she doesn’t, her mind will stray and lead her to dark places she’d rather not be in.

She has always been good at that—distracting herself with the most mundane of things so that she doesn’t pick at her wounds. But lately, it has gotten harder (there are only so many banal things to think about in this mortal coil), especially at night, when the sun is down and the darkness creeps into her bed and into her heart. The thoughts make her dig into her skin, claw into wounds that cannot heal.

In the mornings, Yeonwoo manages, puts on makeup and presentable clothes, hides her fatigue, her thoughts, her wounds. She still manages to fulfil her responsibilities, complete presentations, make jokes and gossip with her colleagues at the pantry. She functions well and convincingly—so convincingly that she knows no one will be able to understand.

The intercom pings and announces the incoming train station and look, her thoughts are out of her control again. She chastises herself, once again wondering about dinner. She hasn’t had ramen for a while now, so she might enter a small ramen stall just around the corner of her apartment complex. The ramen served there is tasty, the noodles springy, and the soup light and refreshing. There are few customers there, so the serenity is a bonus as well. Yes, a warm bowl of ramen sounds just about right.

The train jerks to a stop and Yeonwoo manages not to lose her balance this time. The doors slide open and she steps out of the train, tapping her card to get through the gantry. For once, there isn’t a lot of human traffic and she doesn’t have to squeeze her way out of the train station.

Just as she is about to leave, she feels a fragile hand on her elbow, a touch so light that she would not have noticed if she were in a large crowd. She jerks slightly in surprise, turning around to be greeted by a stranger. The stranger has her head down, jet black hair concealing her face.

“Sorry, do you need something?” Yeonwoo asks, confusion colouring her voice.

The girl lifts her head a little at the question. Her eyes peek out from between dark tresses and then Yeonwoo notices—a moist shimmer at the corners of her eyes. She does a double-take at the girl, suddenly recognizing her as the idol trainee who busks at the station every day without rest. She realizes how the girl’s shoulders are slouched and squared in, how her hands are shaking, how her eyes are so, so dark—almost as dark as her own. She quickly scans her surroundings, inwardly sighing when no one even cares to take a second look at this girl who looks visibly distraught.

She turns towards the girl, gently asking again, “Is something wrong?”

The girl blinks, tears escaping and staining her cheeks with wetness. And then her face contorts, as if a sharp pain just coursed through her. The girl is gasping, chest heaving, quaking hands desperately clutching on to Yeonwoo’s blouse, crumpling the fabric. Yeonwoo rests her own hand above the girl’s trembling ones because she knows, knows how it feels to fall apart and then pretend to have been pieced back together.

With quivering lips, the girl chokes out, “Can you please listen to my voice?”

And Yeonwoo says yes.

///

Yeonwoo’s routine changes in the subtlest of ways after that. She still does overtime, still works into the wee hours of the morning, but everyday after she gets off work and heads home, she stops at her train station to listen to a girl sing.

It really isn’t much, but Yeonwoo finds herself humming songs on her way home after that, finds herself completing work faster, finds that it is easier to wake up the next morning. She does not know exactly what about the girl makes things less difficult—the girl’s smile every time she appears, the girl’s pretty voice, or the look in her eyes when she listens to her sing.

Honestly, Yeonwoo would have said no, if not for the tears and desperation in the girl’s eyes. She saw­ a type of world-weariness that she herself is familiar with, which is why she bit her tongue and agreed. She learns that the girl’s name is Nancy, that her parents are all the way in America and she is all alone here training as an idol, and that she busks at the train station every evening.

They hardly ever talk when they meet. Usually, Yeonwoo just stands around while Nancy sings her heart out. She just quietly listens to Nancy’s voice, closing her eyes and letting herself fall into heartfelt melodies. Sometimes it’s bubbly pop, other times it’s smooth jazz.

Yeonwoo loves the soulful, heart-wrenching ballads best. They bring out the shine in Nancy’s voice the most. When Nancy sings ballads, she reveals a kind of vulnerability and fragility in her voice—and it sounds so real. She sounds like she has gone through a thousand breakups and she has got open wounds all over her skin. Nancy colours heartache in her voice and when Yeonwoo lets herself drown in it, she can feel her own wounds sting.

And when Yeonwoo opens her eyes, Nancy is always wearing the most heart-breaking expressions, eyes so empty and dark, Yeonwoo sees herself in them.

“Why do you look like that whenever I sing sad songs?” Nancy once asked, looking so lost.

Yeonwoo had no idea how she even looked like. Was her expression so unexpected that Nancy looked so perplexed and helpless?

Blinking twice in confusion, she asked, “What do I look like?

“Like me.”

When Nancy said that, Yeonwoo felt a new warmth seep into her. It is a foreign emotion that she cannot identify, but it is still there, settled comfortably next to her heart. It doesn’t clean her wounds or fix them up, no, it doesn’t even lessen the pain. What she does know is that it at least chases away the chill in her bones so that she doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

At one point, she asks Nancy if she could record her voice. She knows it is weird, somewhat disturbing even, but she figures that the idea is similar to a studio album, only that it isn’t professionally produced and that it is only for Yeonwoo to listen to. She cannot help it—clinging on to the warmth that she has always craved.

Nancy hardly finds it creepy, absolutely and completely willing to let Yeonwoo make a personal recording of her own voice. They exchange numbers and Nancy starts sending voice recordings of herself singing. When Yeonwoo is unable to fall asleep, Nancy calls her at three in the morning, softly sings her favourite songs, gently lulling Yeonwoo to sleep and dream.

Yeonwoo sleeps best that way, with her favourite voice warming he