TIRED MAN || Park Jae-min (박재민)

Spring had a way of softening things that were meant to stay sharp.

The air carried the faint sweetness of blooming flowers drifting in through cracked windows, brushing against old walls that had long since forgotten warmth. The apartment, tucked quietly at the edge of the city, seemed almost peaceful in the daylight—sunlight spilling across worn wooden floors, dust glowing like gold in the air.

It hadn’t always felt that way.

Not to you.

You had been here long before him. Long before the scent of fresh air dared to settle into these rooms. This place had been yours—silent, empty, obedient to your presence. People came and went quickly. They always did. A flicker of lights, a whisper in the dark, a door slamming at the wrong moment—simple things. Enough to send them running.

It was easy.

It had always been easy.

Until him.

The night he arrived, you had done everything right. The lights flickered. The temperature dropped. Shadows stretched too far, too wrong. You let your presence seep into the walls, into the air, into the very breath he took. You whispered. You moved things. You showed yourself.

And he had looked at you—really looked.

Paused.

Then said, “You’re kinda cute for a ghost.”

That’s right. Instead of being scared of a ghost, this sad, pathetic, lonely, tired man tried to fuck it

Since then, nothing had gone as it should.

You tried again. And again. And again.

You rattled doors in the middle of the night—he told you to “keep it down, some people are trying to sleep.” You hovered behind him—he leaned back like you were something to rest against. You whispered threats—he whispered back, softer, worse.

Once, you knocked a book clean off the shelf just to prove a point.

He picked it up, flipped through it, and muttered, “If you wanted attention, you could’ve just said so.”

You escalated.

He flirted harder.

And now—

Now, somehow—

You were the one avoiding him.

---

The front door clicked open with a familiar, tired ease.

Jae-min stepped inside, the scent of spring clinging faintly to him—fresh air, something floral, something out of place against the usual trace of coffee and long hours. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled, hair slightly more styled than usual but already falling out of place. There was a faint crease of exhaustion beneath his eyes, but something lighter lingered too, subtle but there.

In his hand—

Flowers.

Real ones.

Soft petals in pale colors, wrapped carelessly but not thoughtlessly.

He shut the door behind him with a quiet thud and slipped off his shoes, stretching his shoulders slightly as if trying to shake off the weight of the day.

“…I’m back,” he called out, voice low, casual—like it had become routine.

Silence answered.

He paused.

His gaze shifted slowly across the apartment.

The air felt the same—cool, still, faintly charged—but you weren’t there. Not in the usual places. Not lingering in the corners, not brushing against the edges of his awareness the way you always did.

His brows knit together, just slightly.

“…What, no dramatic entrance today?” he muttered, stepping further in.

Nothing.

He set his bag down, glancing toward the kitchen, the hallway, the living space. His movements were unhurried, but there was something deliberate in the way he checked—like he had grown used to you being there, expected it without realizing.

“Did I finally scare you off?” he added, quieter now, almost amused.

Still nothing.

He clicked his tongue softly.

“…Rude.”

The flowers shifted in his grip as he turned, gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling.

The attic.

A beat passed.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he made his way toward it, footsteps steady as he climbed the narrow stairs. The wood creaked faintly under his weight, the air growing cooler with each step, heavier, like the space itself hadn’t been touched by spring at all.

He pushed the attic door open.

It creaked—slow, drawn-out, almost theatrical.

“…Found you.”

There you were.

Not hidden well enough.

Not gone.

Just… there.

The dim light from below stretched into the attic, catching on your form, outlining you against the quiet stillness. Dust lingered in the air, untouched, the space feeling smaller with your presence in it.

Jae-min leaned against the doorway for a moment, studying you.

There it was again—that pause.

Not fear.

Never fear.

Just that same quiet observation, like he was trying to understand something he wasn’t in a hurry to solve.

“…You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally, voice softer than before, but still threaded with that familiar ease.

He stepped inside.

One step.

Then another.

The wooden floor creaked under him, but he didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, didn’t keep distance the way anyone else would have.

Instead, he held up the flowers slightly, glancing down at them like he’d almost forgotten they were there.

“I got these at the event,” he said, casual, like this was a normal conversation to have in an attic with a ghost. “They were handing them out. Thought it’d be a waste to throw them away.”

A small pause.

His eyes flicked back to you, that faint, almost lazy curve tugging at his lips again.

“…Figured you might like them.”