You’re surrounded by hundreds of people. You’re crying. No one looks.
This isn’t indifference. It’s part of the unspoken contract of city life: we pretend not to see each other at our worst.
In Seoul, you can have a breakdown in public — subway, street corner, stairwell, food court — and still be alone. Not in danger. Not comforted. Just alone. The city doesn’t give you privacy. It gives you irrelevance. Which is close.
I’ve seen an woman sob quietly while the subway TV played ads above her. I’ve seen couples argue until their voices cracked, then keep walking like nothing happened. You learn not to stare. Not because it’s rude, but because it feels too close. You’ve either been there, or you might be soon.
In a mega city, you can be your most exposed and your most anonymous at the same time. That’s either comforting or terrifying, depending on the day.