The alarm rang like it hated him.
Not once. Not politely. It screamed—shrill and relentless—right next to Miyamo Kimtsu's ear, as if it had a personal grudge against twenty-year-old convenience store workers who slept at 3 a.m.
"Ugh…"
Miyamo rolled over, slapped the phone with his palm, missed, slapped the bed instead, then finally fumbled the screen until the noise died. He lay there for a few seconds, eyes half-open, scratching the side of his head like he was trying to wake his brain manually.
A yawn crawled out of him, wide and unashamed.
"Mom?" he called, voice dry. "Mom…?"
No answer.
The room stayed quiet, except for the ceiling fan making a tired clicking sound it had been making for years and no one had ever bothered to fix.
He squinted at his phone.
12:47 PM.
"…Ah."
Too late for breakfast. Too early to feel like a person.
Miyamo sat up, hair sticking out in directions that suggested he had fought a pillow in his sleep and lost. He stared at the wall for a moment, not thinking about anything in particular, then stood up and shuffled toward the bathroom.
The mirror greeted him with a familiar disappointment.
"Wow," he muttered, splashing water on his face. "Still you."
He brushed his teeth with one hand while scrolling his phone with the other, not reading anything, just moving his thumb out of habit. The shower was quick—lukewarm, because hot water felt like too much effort—and by the time he came out, the apartment already felt empty.
On the table sat a plate, covered with another plate.
Eggs. Rice. Cold.
His mother's handwriting on a small note beside it read:
Eat before work. Love you.
He ate standing up, scrolling again, chewing without tasting. The food wasn't bad. It was just… there. Like everything else.
His phone buzzed.
Manager.
Miyamo froze mid-bite.
He swallowed fast and answered. "H-hello?"
"You're working evening," the manager said, no greeting. "You're late again?"
"I'm— I'm on the way," Miyamo said automatically, even though he was very clearly still barefoot in his kitchen.
"Be there by two."
"Yes, sir."
The call ended.
Miyamo stared at his phone for a second, then sighed, shoved the rest of the food into his mouth, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out the door while still tying his shoes.
The convenience store smelled like instant noodles, disinfectant, and mild despair.
Miyamo clocked in at 2:03 PM.
"Late," his coworker said without looking at him.
"Three minutes," Miyamo replied.
"Still late."
He took his position behind the counter, adjusted his name tag crookedly, and prepared himself for the long stretch of hours that felt like standing still while time walked past him.
The first customer argued about a discount that didn't exist.
"It was cheaper yesterday," the man insisted.
"Prices change weekly," Miyamo said, pointing at the sign.
"This sign is wrong."
"The sign is… printed."
"So you're calling me a liar?"
"No, sir. I'm calling the sign paper."
The man left angry. Miyamo felt tired.
The second customer paid entirely in coins, dropping them one by one like they were making a point. The third complained about the air conditioning. The fourth stared at him for too long.
"Do you work here every day?" she asked.
"…Yes."
"Hm."
She left without buying anything.
By 6 p.m., Miyamo had forgotten what day it was. By 8, he had forgotten what month. By 9:45, his legs hurt and his brain had turned into static.
At exactly 10:00 PM, he clocked out.
The hallway of his apartment building was quiet.
Same peeling paint. Same dim light flickering like it might give up any day now. Same silence that followed him home every night.
Miyamo yawned, scratching his head again, walking past doors he didn't know the people behind.
Nothing happened.
Nothing ever did.
He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and let it close behind him with a soft click.
Another day completed.
Another day survived.
He didn't know it yet—but this was the last day his life would stay boring in exactly this way.
And honestly, he would miss it.