Silence Behind Glass

The bookshop stood at the end of a narrow alley in Samcheong-dong, sandwiched between a ceramic studio and a failing tea house. Most people walked past without noticing it—a gray door with flaking paint, a window cluttered with secondhand poetry collections, and a wooden sign that read Midnight Pages in cursive so faded it looked like a ghost. Taehyung had worked here for three years. He arrived at 7:30 each morning—not 7:29, not 7:31—unlocking the deadbolt with hands that trembled slightly from the cold and the quiet terror of being perceived. His apartment was twenty minutes away by bus, a studio smaller than most walk-in closets, but it had a window facing east and a landlady who never asked questions. That was enough for his comfort. Inside, the shop smelled of aging paper, cinnamon tea, and the particular melancholy of unread stories. Taehyung loved it. He loved the way dust motes floated through morning light like tiny stars. He loved alphabetizing the mismatched spines and pressing his fingers to cracked leather bindings. He loved that customers rarely came before noon, which meant he could spend the first hours alone. Alone was safe. Alone was quiet. Alone meant no one was looking at him. Because when people looked at Kim Taehyung, they looked. It had always been this way, even as a child—the way teachers paused mid-sentence, the way strangers on the subway forgot to glance away. He was beautiful in a way that felt like an accident. Wide, brown eyes that held galaxies. Full plump lips he bit raw when anxious. Cheekbones that caught shadows like whispers. And his hair, a cascade of honey-brown that fell across his forehead no matter how many times he pushed it back Today, he wore an oversized cream sweater with fraying cuffs and loose gray trousers that pooled over his scuffed loafers. Soft clothes. Clothes that swallowed him whole. Clothes that said please don't notice me while his face screamed look, look, look. Unknowingly. The bell above the door chimed at 9:15. Taehyung flinched so hard he knocked over a stack of vintage postcards. He didn't expect a customer now. "Sorry! I'm so sorry—" A young woman with pink hair and a kind smile hurried to help him gather the scattered cards. "I didn't mean to startle you. The sign said open, and the door was unlocked, so I thought—" "It's okay," Taehyung whispered, not meeting her eyes. His voice came out softer than he intended, barely above the rustle of paper. "I'm sorry. It's just—you surprised me." The woman tilted her head. "You apologize a lot." "I know." He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, which was turning the color of peonies. "Can I help you find something?". He said. She wanted a first edition of The Little Prince for her sister's birthday. Taehyung knew exactly where it was—tucked in the back corner, third shelf from the bottom, beside a volume of Rilke that made him cry every time. He retrieved it with careful hands, wrapped it in brown paper, and tied it with twine without being asked. The woman watched his fingers work, fascinated. "You have beautiful hands," she said. Taehyung's blush deepened to crimson. He stammered something about the price, took her money, and retreated behind the counter as soon as the door closed. His heart hammered against his ribs for ten minutes afterward. This was his life. Small kindnesses felt like earthquakes. A compliment could ruin his entire afternoon. He navigated the world as though wrapped in cellophane—visible, fragile, desperate not to shatter. His phone buzzed. A text from his only friend, Chim: Coming for lunch? The usual spot? Taehyung typed back: Can't. Inventory. Rain check? Jimin knew better than to push. They'd met in university, two lost boys who recognized each other's loneliness. Jimin was loud where Taehyung was quiet, brash where Taehyung shrank. But he never asked why Taehyung flinched at loud voices or avoided crowded rooms. He never demanded explanations for the nightmares that left Taehyung shaking or the way he checked his locks three times before sleeping. Some doors, Jimin understood, weren't meant to be opened. At 6:00 PM, Taehyung closed the shop. He walked home through the autumn drizzle, shoulders hunched, umbrella forgotten on the counter. The rain felt nice—cold and cleansing. It washed away the residue of human interaction. His apartment welcomed him with silence. He changed into pajamas, microwaved leftover rice, and ate while staring at a water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a rabbit, to which he smiled a bit at that. Then he opened his sketchbook and began to draw. He didn't draw flowers or landscapes or the pretty things people expected. He drew shadows. Long, reaching shadows with fingers like claws. Shadows that chased faceless figures through empty streets. Shadows that looked, sometimes, like they were trying to hold something. Tonight, his pencil moved differently. A figure emerged—sharp jaw, dark hair swept back, a posture of absolute authority. Taehyung didn't know where the image came from. He'd never seen this man before. But something about the drawing made his chest ache. He sketched until 2 AM, then closed the book and pressed his palm flat against the cover. His reflection stared back from the dark window—pale, tired, beautiful in a way that felt like a curse. "Tomorrow will be different," he whispered. And went off to dreamland. Hi! there!🌱💜 First time writing a story here. hehe I'm nervous, but I'm doing it anyway. Please ignore the mistakes—I'm learning as I go. Let me know if you like the story so far. If you like it, give it a like, leave a comment, and follow for more stories i might do in the future. Thank you for being kind to me baiii BORAHAE!💜💜