A tall, clean-cut young man moved into the apartment building where I live. He’s in his late twenties and is of mixed South American and white background. Not only is he handsome, but also polite and always greets people warmly. Just seeing him made me feel happy. His name is David.
One day, I glanced into his apartment through the slightly open door. His furniture was not ordinary — they were beautiful vintage pieces from the 1960s and 70s. Everything about him felt special and elegant. I later found out he was an interior designer. After he moved in, even the building seemed to have a better atmosphere.
I was glad to have such a stylish neighbor. But I also became a little uncomfortable. I started worrying that the smell of Korean food like doenjang soup or kimchi might spread into the hallway. Once, I made cheonggukjang (fermented soybean soup) because I really missed it, but some people stood in front of my door, talking and then walked away. I try to be careful, but it’s hard to give up Korean food.
Later, I heard that David lost his job. I didn’t see him as much anymore, and when I did, he looked more and more depressed. He started spending more time at home. Maybe because of money problems, he got a roommate. I sometimes saw him taking his expensive furniture out of the apartment. Women came and went. I even heard shouting and crying. It sounded like he was desperately trying to escape from a difficult situation.
"Are you okay?"
I asked David one day when I saw him in the hallway. He told me he lost his job and started going to a bar nearby. That’s where he met a woman who, he later found out, was addicted to drugs. At first, he thought it wasn’t a big deal, but things quickly got worse.
“Do you remember me? When I first moved into this apartment? I want to go back to that time,” he said, crying with regret.
His cries grew louder. In the end, he even started stealing things from people in the building. He had gone too far to return to his old self, and he had to leave the building.
I thought maybe he went to a hospital for drug treatment. But one day, he appeared in the neighborhood again. He didn’t say hello and acted like he didn’t see me. His front teeth were missing, and he looked 20 years older. Like a homeless person, he hurried toward the riverside. When he came back, he had a strange smile on his face, dragging his tired legs. Then he disappeared again. After that, David never came back.
Sometimes I look out my window, and when I see someone who looks like him, I hope maybe David returned, healthy again. But he never did.