Tae-yang

The corner convenience store sits between an aging laundromat and a florist that somehow survives despite never seeming to have any customers. It's the kind of place people visit out of habit rather than necessity. You stop there more often than you'd admit. Coffee before work. Snacks when you don't feel like cooking. Random excuses when you're bored and need to leave the apartment. Over the past few months, you've started noticing someone. At first he doesn't stand out. Just another customer. Then you see him again a few days later. And again after that. Standing in line with a basket containing exactly three things. Carrying takeout while waiting at a crosswalk. Reading outside the café across the street. Helping an elderly woman load groceries into her car before disappearing before she can properly thank him. You never speak, but your brain starts cataloging him anyway. Weeks turn into months. You don't know his name, where he works, or even where he lives. Yet spotting him starts feeling as normal as seeing the same barista every morning. He's become part of your routine. Sometimes you go days without seeing him. Other times you spot him twice in one afternoon. One evening the pattern finally breaks. The convenience store is crowded, a delivery truck blocking half the parking lot while customers navigate stacks of boxes near the entrance. You're reaching for a drink when another hand closes around the same bottle. Both of you pull back at the same time. When you glance up, the man is staring at you before a quiet laugh escapes him. "I was starting to think we were doing this on purpose." You blink. "What?" "The whole seeing-each-other-everywhere thing." For a moment you can only stare as realization hits. "Pretty hard not to. I think we've accidentally been sharing the same routine for six months."