An Ordinary Day

When I opened my eyes, a strange tightness wrapped around my chest. The air in my room felt heavier than usual, and for a fleeting moment, I swore the walls had shifted—just slightly. But when I blinked, everything was normal again. Daylight seeped through the gaps in the curtains, casting a pale gray hue across my room, swallowing everything in a muted shadow. I had woken up a few minutes before my alarm, yet getting out of bed felt impossible, as if gravity itself was conspiring against me.

Every day was the same, a relentless repetition of moments that blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the last. The weight of routine pressed down on me, an invisible chain that bound me to a life that felt like it was standing still while time moved forward without me.

Every morning, the cracks on the ceiling greeted me with the same indifference. They never changed, never moved, just sat there like silent witnesses to my life.

How many times had I greeted this gray morning with the same sigh? Even breathing felt like a ritual—monotonous, numb, inevitable. It was as if I was trapped in a time loop, reliving a life that never progressed. 

My very existence felt like an echo, repeating endlessly but never truly real. Again, and again, and again… yet none of it felt genuine.

I turned to the side, my cheek pressing against the cool surface of my pillow. The clock on my nightstand read 7:43 AM. I glanced away for a second, rubbing my eyes, and when I looked back—7:42 AM. My breath caught. A glitch? No... maybe I was just too tired

I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut, resisting the passage of time. A void inside me grew, whispering that if I could just cling to this moment, everything would pause—that reality might forget about me for just a little longer. But I knew…

Within moments, my alarm would shatter the silence, and my mother’s voice would echo through the hallway like an inescapable decree. I wasn’t expecting a miracle to break me out of this cycle. Today would begin just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Still… I wanted to stay in this illusion for just a few more seconds.

Soon enough, the sharp ringing of my alarm tore through the quiet. With a sigh, I silenced it with a sluggish hand. No matter how much I resisted, the cycle continued.

"Haru! Come down for breakfast! You’re going to be late!"

As my mother’s voice rang out, my lips moved involuntarily, whispering the words along with her. I had memorized them by heart. It was as if I knew them before she even spoke them. This phrase, locked in an endless battle against time, had long since embedded itself in my mind.

Slowly, I sat up and rubbed my face, my fingers tracing over the cool, slightly clammy skin. My limbs felt sluggish, as if weighed down by an unseen force, and a dull ache settled in my joints, remnants of restless sleep. Even blinking felt like an effort, my eyelids heavy with lingering exhaustion. My body felt as heavy as lead, as if my bed was pulling me back in. But there was no escape.

Then—BANG! My mother’s voice shattered the silence, pulling me back into reality.

I dragged myself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. As I lifted my head, my reflection in the mirror lingered—just a fraction of a second longer than it should have. A trick of the light? I wasn’t sure. As I lifted my head, I caught my own reflection in the mirror. Pale, tired features. Messy hair, drowsy eyes. The dullness in my gaze felt like a bottomless pit, pulling me in. Placing my hands on the edge of the sink, I lowered my head and exhaled.

I shouldn’t feel like this… I was young, with endless possibilities ahead. My life wasn’t supposed to be an endless loop of the same moments. Just because I felt this way now didn’t mean I always would, right? Maybe I was lost, but there were still roads ahead of me. Nothing was truly over yet.

I took a deep breath, hoping the air filling my lungs would somehow lighten the weight pressing down on me. Maybe this suffocating feeling was just a habit. Maybe the world wasn’t truly gray—I had just grown used to seeing it that way. Today, at the very least, I had to take a step toward something different. I owed myself that much.

Surely… I could do that.

Even the smallest change was possible. The fragile hope blooming inside me struggled to keep me upright.

But as soon as I sat down for breakfast, the faint optimism in me was ripped away.

My father, as always, was buried in his newspaper, his eyes lost in the columns of text. My mother, clutching her phone tightly, spoke in hurried tones, her voice laced with the weight of a conversation that seemed far too important to break. It was as if I wasn’t even there, as if we were all trapped in our own separate worlds.

Silently, I took a seat. As I reached for a piece of bread, everything on my plate looked dull and tasteless. I took a bite, but chewing and swallowing felt like a pointless task. Like every morning, I ate without tasting, my body moving on autopilot.

At last, my mother hung up and turned her gaze toward me. For a split second, I hoped she would say something different this time, something unexpected—maybe even ask how I was. But her eyes held the same detached familiarity, as if she were merely confirming my presence rather than truly seeing me. The moment our eyes met, a strange tightness formed in my chest, like an invisible hand pressing down on me. But she spoke as if nothing had happened.

"Haru, you’re going to be late for school."

Her tone was the same. The same emphasis, the same rhythm, even the subtle authority layered within her words—it was all exactly as I had heard a thousand times before. As if I had already lived this moment countless times and would continue to relive it again and again.

I didn’t respond. Standing up, I slung my bag over my shoulder. As I stepped out the door, the familiar sounds of morning—the television playing, the scent of breakfast lingering, my family’s unchanged routine—faded behind me.

Outside, the world continued turning. The same streets, the same people, the same wind rustling through scattered leaves. Yet I felt stuck, as if trapped inside a never-ending dream. Time moved forward, but for me, everything remained still.

On my way to school, I ran into Ryou and Takeshi. As always, they were full of energy.

"Haru! Where’d you disappear to last night? We were just about to beat the boss!" Ryou called out.

I rolled my eyes. "I got sleepy. I told you guys to go on without me."

Takeshi raised an eyebrow, shaking his head. "Who goes to bed at eleven? You’re like an old man!"

The three of us laughed, but my laughter was the shortest. It lingered in the air for a moment before fading.

As I walked through the school corridors, just minutes before class started, I heard someone softly call my name. I hesitated, my steps faltering for just a moment as a strange chill ran down my spine. The voice was quiet, almost uncertain, making me wonder if I had imagined it. Slowly, I turned to see a girl with long black hair standing before me, her face flushed, her gaze hesitant.

"H-Haru… This… This is for you!" she stammered, quickly thrusting an envelope into my hands before scurrying away.

I blinked in surprise. Ayaka—the quiet yet kind girl from our class.

Before I could even thank her, she had already turned and hurried off. The moment she disappeared, Ryou and Takeshi materialized beside me, grinning at the envelope.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Did Haru just get a love letter?" Takeshi smirked, nudging me with his elbow.

Ryou burst into laughter. "Who knew? Our Haru actually has a secret charm!"

I rolled my eyes. "Is it really that surprising? And why are you making such a big deal out of this?"

"Haru’s love life is a national event, my friend," Takeshi quipped, chuckling.

I sighed, stuffing the envelope into my bag. As my fingers brushed against its rough texture, I noticed the slight tremble in my hand. A strange wave of excitement coursed through me—my heartbeat quickened for the first time all day. An unexpected feeling… unfamiliar, yet warm. Knowing someone had noticed me, had thought about me—it made my existence feel a little less invisible.

But was this excitement? Or was it just the quiet loneliness inside me finally finding a voice?

Maybe, just maybe, this time the cycle wouldn’t reset.