It is but a constant repetition that he doesn’t see the end of, turning the same and almost robotic procedure that has already engraved itself in him into something entirely frustrating. He can only abhor the fact that this keeps being a constant which he can’t run away from, loathing always manifesting itself as it finds its course through his system--a clashing current of anxiety and annoyance rushing through him. Even if it is something necessary in his life, in everyone's existence for that matter.

 

Yet, each occasion only becomes a showcase of the repetitive string of actions which have become foreseeable to Hongbin--gestures and looks all too familiar. It is of no importance that the visage before him is entirely different, the traces of the inevitable silent scrutiny are always identical. He has habituated himself to see them  for as long as he can remember in other faces long forgotten by now- after all, they all are similar, basking in the superficial status that the so called normality gives them even in an ordinary situation and looking at everyone else with a judgemental eye before a chance to introduce themselves properly arises. Instances like this one only making the feeling far more prominent.

 

The air in the office he is sitting is turning heavy around him, pure white walls appear to enclose him further more than they already are, natural light filtering through the windows fail to give any sort of comfort--it’s almost suffocating as the gaze falling on him from across the desk with utmost intensity makes him try his best to prevent the quiver in his voice from making itself present while the papers scattered on the wooden surface seem daunting. Hongbin’s hands rest on top of his thighs, somehow attempting to hide their trembling in a way that goes unnoticed, thanking the desk covering him as he clutches the fabric of his jeans, attempting to not give away any sort signs that could reveal that his seemingly calm demeanour is nothing but a facade he has built for himself.

 

The amount of times he has gone through this same process in his youth is truly unimportant, because there is something about the difficulty levels of simple and small day to day questions that still makes Hongbin feel like a weight had been suddenly thrown to the pit of his stomach and that an unknown force was tugging at the strings of his stability. It never changes--the uneasiness doesn’t diminish no matter the many occasions he has been at the other side of a desk with a set of inquiries to reply to. Always finding himself answering the usual, ‘What’s your name and age?’ that makes Hongbin only let his most gentle and professional smile paint itself on his lips as reply.

 

“Lee Hongbin, 23 years old” he begins, collected and stable in contrast to how tighter the grasp on his jeans is becoming by the second, “Turning 24 this year”

 

The response he gets is truly to the point and without the need to dwell on unnecessary chit-chat--a simple nod in acknowledgement and nothing but. Yet, it’s all Hongbin needs for ease to finally begin settling in his system and for his muscles to relax even if the relief turns out to be momentary, “Part-time or full time?” the man in a suit sitting across him asks, notes being scribbled hastily in unison with Hongbin’s replies that attempt to explain what he is here for and the kind of job he wishes to get.

 

“My college schedules are a bit messy,” he starts, tone steadier by the second and he can’t help but owe it to lady luck that he isn’t letting fear crawl into him, “but it is mostly in the mornings when things are hectic for me,” Hongbin explains to the interviewer, carefully choosing what to reveal and not. He knows he has to curate his replies in a way that they feel fulfilling enough and that pose as barrier at the same time, there really is no room for any sort of mistake--at least, not for him, “My evenings are free, my afternoons are not that bad--my weekend mornings are available though”

 

It doesn’t take long until things take an almost mechanical turn as more questions begin being bombarded his way, the atmosphere shifting as if it were a war zone. Each question is on the search to find a flaw in every word that falls from his lips and they nearly sound glacial and impersonal, making this more automated than it should be, “Ever rode a motorbike?”

 

“I own one”

 

“Drivers license?”

 

“Updated, sir”, to Hongbin these interviews at times transform themselves into a field full of landmines for him to tread on with his eyes blindfolded, as if the wrong step was going to set everything on fire and crashing down like wreckage after an explosion--translating into a probably lost opportunity. He gets a nod in response, the man in front him just bobbing his head and noting down Hongbin’s answers before the inevitable comes-- Hongbin knew it was, yet it doesn't make it any less disappointing.

 

“Your ID card please,” he is told, a hand stretched out for him to place the item that defines his identity--even though he is far more than what an object like that says, “I would like to check your tattoo permission”

 

“Yeah…” he reaches for his bag that had been sitting on the floor by the foot of his chair and rummages through it to grab his wallet and place it on the table--sitting in between them like an unspoken guarantee, “I have none” he says, hoping that his tone delivers the truth in his words, for them to be accepted as facts.

 

Hongbin’s ID is inspected carefully, with a curious eye as if nothing similar had been seen before,“No stickers,” says the man, attention focusing on his notepad once more. Hongbin can see him crossing out some empty squares in a form that lays on the table and he is certainly glad that for now, this stage has been passed, “Not a single tattoo made by your own decision-- that’s good ” the interviewer points out as he places the card on the table, this particularly giving the impression of bonus points in his book,  “It’s just a safety measure” he adds, as if to excuse himself.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s understandable” Hongbin says,making an understanding soft smile show itself in a world which will forever remain incomprehensible in its glacial outlook at humanity. In Hongbin’s view, he knows that it is something akin to pity and at times even reaching levels of hatred and disgust--a misfortune of fate, maybe. There is little to no sympathy towards the mistakes scattered in the form of other humans--not much different from the majority of the population; yet dissimilar altogether. And this instance is not one he is an stranger to in his life, yet at the same time is never easy to deal with.

 

“The most important question now and we are done,” it freezes him, but he can only respond with a nod. He is aware that the inquiry is one that he won’t ever be able to avoid, yet Hongbin feels like he is about to be interviewed by the police regarding a crime he didn’t commit, “Are you a soulmate bearer?”

 

The question doesn’t sound any different from being asked if he had been in jail at any point in his life, thrown into a cell to pay for an injustice he hadn’t ever thought of getting involved into. However, questions like these keep being thrown on the daily to everyone--as if they were being asked regarding simple things like the weather or what time it was. They sound like noiseless accusations--treating everybody new as ex-convicts trying to reconstruct their life and Hongbin expected it, but it doesn’t make the discomfort diminish in the slightest.

 

“ Oh… ”

 

“You know, it’s not like we have anything against them personally , but there’s always some clients…” the man pauses, as if he were treading carefully to not offend him somehow. There is the belief that runs through society, one that has everyone certain that such kind of people are the ones who should not even exist--a judgemental and unjust outlook of something people have no control of yet fate had decided to make them be an anomaly, “If you are, you would have to provide your psychologist’s name and a certificate that ensures your mental stability is well balanced”

  

It is the norm for people to get treated by others like lunatics or delinquents when falling outside their so called normalcy--insane or disabled is their definition, asked to prove that they are as worthy as any other functioning human being to have job opportunities, to be able to be normal--treated like a regular individual, “I am not” Hongbin says, words coming off without emotions or uncertainty attached to them--curt, to the point, “I am not one of those ”

 

“Your hand, please” Hongbin nods. After all, it’s not even registered as an offense but an automated conduct everybody has been taught they need to go through in this society, “I have to make sure”

 

That prominent feeling of superiority makes Hongbin’s bitterness bubble up little by little--he would have rolled his eyes if he could have, if it didn’t come off as a rebellious display searching for confrontation. Yet, he knew better than to scoff at how ridiculous everyone was and at how--even if now almost immune to them--hurtful these little actions were despite being the designate protocol in situations like this, “Sure”

 

He stretches his right hand just as fast as his words come to a halt for it to be subject of overly critical examination, “All looks normal” and it does, for today it does and as long as the interviewer doesn’t pull a trick from under his sleeve, it will continue to be so.

 

“I’m normal,” yet there is a difference between saying it and being really normal--it is like black and white: too clashing to be the same entity, too contrasting for them to mold into one form that is massively acceptable. As far as Hongbin knows and has been exposed to, gray isn’t accepted, “As you can see in my hand--” he is saying, yet Hongbin flinches slightly when the back of his hand is rubbed lightly and he can only pray to the heavens for the man to not see the quiver in his lips that could give away his sudden rising anxiety, “I’m sorry, I’m just ticklish”

 

It’s a lie, however, like every single one of the other answers he has given to the most important questions in this interview--nothing  but half-truths said in the search of something as normal as a job while being part of the definition of abnormality in the world. Just fabrications everyone is bound to say at some point--Hongbin included because that’s his conventional attitude to the habitual sword that words carry in them.

 

There’s a brief pause, one that looms heavily around him as the form that was laying on the table is attached to a folder alongside the notes that had only evolved in the past few minutes. And there is a formal smile as his hand is shaken,“You start on Monday”

 

“Thank you, sir!”

 

And that cheery tone and his bright dimpled smile are nothing but a lie as well, because Hongbin can’t truly let himself be fully happy about having to spit falsehoods like that was the actual definition of normal. Yet that’s how it is , his mind tells him in attempts of lowering down his levels of frustration and it doesn’t make it any easier, but that’s how it is.

 

/////

 

It’s still early by the time he arrives at his block, yet the feeling of having been locked for hours in an unwelcoming place hasn’t truly left him ever since leaving the interview room. Restlessness would be one accurate way to refer to the feeling that keeps crawling inside his being, making him look behind his shoulder every so often as if he was about to get caught at any point while going about his way. Tension rests heavily on his shoulders, apprehension following suit as his steps take him closer to his building.

 

The uneasiness makes him reach for his keys in a haste, instability shown in the light tremor that he can clearly see in his hand. Hongbin hisses, reminding himself to calm down--it’s all over and went good after all. But the anxiety coursing through him hasn’t quite left, neither has the frustrating feeling that travels in unison. He should feel content, the expression painted on his face should be of accomplishment and happiness yet he doesn’t have the energy to put up a fight with the discomfort he still feels fresh on his skin.

 

At times like this, he wishes interviews for these kind of jobs were as easy as it is to sign up on an app--just as impersonal as the procedure of filling a form and be done with it without the need to face anyone, yet that is wishing in futility. It is not as simple as having a vehicle and becoming part of the staff and after all because the motorbike he will be using is not his property but the company’s.

 

It’s not the first time he applies for a delivery job--one of the many kinds of part times he has taken-- yet he is being interviewed like he was going to be part of the secret service and Hongbin can only roll his eyes at the ridiculous nature of all this. ‘For security measures’ , he was told--yet nobody has ever cared about the safety of people like him.

 

It makes the travel up three flights of stairs and in direction to his flat all the more stressing, but at the same time--the craving for his home is evident in how fast his steps take him to his door, with a sigh falling from his lips the moment he turns the doorknob and he can finally step into actual safety.

 

When the door is closed behind him, the first thing that his mind urges him to do is to get rid of the lies and rush into the bathroom. The urgency to let the covers that hide who he is wash away just far more prominent when the sting in his hand starts becoming bothersome--even if it is whom fate wanted him to be born as, one of the blemishes in an otherwise ‘pristine’ population.

 

The familiarity of his flat is calming. His living room with a large black leather sofa and two armchairs of the same material gives him the warmth that the office he was at had denied him, the prussian curta