Minsu’s Everyday Broadcast
Saebyeok 25 convenience store grew quieter as the night deepened.
During the day, the lack of customers made me sigh, but at night, the absence felt unsettling instead.
The bell above the door, the hum of the fridge motors, the electronic beeps from the POS machine next to the counter—all faded into a hush.
I was pulling chocolate milk to the front of the display shelf when I paused.
These days, even such trivial motions had become too routine.
Straightening slightly crooked labels, pushing products near expiration to the back, folding plastic bags and stashing them under the counter.
My hands knew the sequence without a thought.
'At this rate, I really am turning into a convenience store.'
A silly notion crossed my mind, and I let out a quiet breath to myself.
BJ Kang Minsu — Viewers: 199,842
"I’m just working."
I muttered to myself, and the chat immediately buzzed with mockery.
I shoved the stacked beverage crate next to the counter into place.
It was just past eleven at night.
Around this hour, drunk customers occasionally stumbled in, eyed the cigarette corner, grabbed a triangle kimbap, and left.
Before, even those made me tense, but lately, it felt oddly different.
No matter who came in, they’d pass right by me in the end.
The door opened.
The bell rang clear, but the customer who entered carried the scent of exhaustion, not alcohol.
A middle-aged man in a half-unbuttoned suit.
Dark circles hollowed his eyes, and he clutched a crumpled wad of receipts.
I turned automatically toward the counter.
"Welcome."
The man glanced at me once and headed silently to the fridge.
But strangely, the moment he approached the counter, the chat went dead quiet.
The man set down two triangle kimbaps and a canned coffee, then gave a very brief bow at the counter.
"Thanks for your hard work."
I blinked in a daze.
"Ah, y-yes..."
"Even this late, the shelves are fully stocked."
"I-it’s just because I do it."
After saying it, I felt oddly humble myself.
The man took his receipt but didn’t leave right away.
He lingered by the counter for a moment, then smiled tiredly as I handed him the plastic bag.
"Thank you. Keep it up."
Only after he left did I exhale long and slow.
As the door closed, the chat erupted instantly.
I glanced at the store manager sitting under the counter.
He was flipping through the warehouse inventory sheet and looked up, sensing my gaze.
"What."
"Wasn’t that customer just now a bit weird?"
"How."
"Too polite."
The manager shrugged nonchalantly.
"People get courteous late at night."
"Didn’t feel like that."
"Could be."
He waved dismissively, as if to say no more questions.
That attitude felt more real, letting me catch my breath a little.
The manager was always like that.
He didn’t call weird things weird if I didn’t, and ignored others’ odd behavior without overanalyzing.
Thanks to him, at least inside this store, my breathing stayed steady.
I headed to the ramen corner to restock again.
Front row first, pull back ones forward, straighten rotated packages.
This repetition should bore me, but lately, the simplicity felt good.
No need to overthink, no need to fear.
Especially expiration dates—they never lied.
Past the date, discard; before, sell.
No matter what people read into my face, that didn’t change.
Sometimes, I envied those little numbers.
They had fixed meanings.
Maybe that’s why.
The words slipped from my mouth.
I paused, hands still, and scanned the store.
The fluorescent lights weren’t too harsh—nice.
Car headlights passing outside felt distant, slow.
Cold air leaking from the fridge doors, the small fan whirring under the counter, silence at the end of empty aisles.
Barcode scanner beeps. POS motor hum.
This boring part-time shift, where nothing happened, was my sole salvation.
A comfortable sigh escaped unknowingly.
"Haa... I like these ordinary days the most."
The moment the words ended, an unnatural silence fell.
I froze, wondering if I’d messed up.
The chat stayed still for about a second.
Then it exploded.
"No, it’s just..."
I trailed off.
"This time of night feels peaceful, is all."
It really was.
The longer moments dragged on—people analyzing me, pulling at me, misreading me—the more precious these hours became.
No one measuring my back, no one blocking my front.
Just aligning ramen shelves, ringing up customers, manager keeping chit-chat minimal.
That’s all I meant.
But the chat was already racing elsewhere.
The manager glanced at me from the counter.
His look held no special meaning.
That’s what made it good.
"Once you’re done sorting, check discards."
"Yes."
I answered and walked to the fridge.
Cold air hit my face as I opened the door.
Expiration stickers gleamed under the white fluorescent light.
I wiped condensation with the back of my hand and gathered items to toss.
Just doing that felt good right now.
But those words were already lodged in the chat.
I closed the discard box and paused, hands idle.
I wasn’t as tired as expected.
If anything, a bit warm.
The chat hadn’t quieted.
Sentences still scrolled at the edge of my right vision.
Yet oddly, the noise felt distant.
Not like claw scratches from dungeons or conference room chatter—just the usual murmur of a late-night convenience stream.
I didn’t want to admit that thought, so I fussed with the discard box again.
It was strange.
Under constant gazes day and night, I hadn’t realized how empty even brief moments of nothing could feel.
Ten minutes without customers wasn’t void—it was time to breathe again.
I glanced at my reflection in the counter glass.
Tired-looking, but not scared, at least not now.
That felt good.
No matter what anyone said or read into me, inside this store, I kept my own pace.
Maybe that’s why I said more.
Strange.
How a night with nothing could feel this good.
And as that thought hit, the last chat line scrolled up slowly.
I saw the lines but didn’t reply.
Answering would just add meaning.
Instead, I picked up the discard box and headed to the warehouse.
My footsteps lightly stuck and peeled from the store floor.
Even that ordinary sound lingered a bit longer today.
Opening the warehouse door brought the smell of cardboard boxes.
I peered into the darkness inside, then glanced back unnecessarily.
The chat still floated there.
Noisy, annoying, sometimes suffocatingly heavy.
Yet my hand hesitated before flipping the warehouse light.
A blue flicker at the edge of my vision.
My fingertip froze over the switch.
Just for a moment.
The floating chat caught my eye before the dark warehouse.
Pretending not to notice, I turned on the light.
White light flooded in.