Every morning at 8:15, I leave my apartment in Hapjeong with earbuds in and an americano in hand. I walk five minutes to the subway, scan my T-money card, and take Line 2 eastbound. I don’t have anywhere to be. I’m a graphic designer and I work from home. But for the last three months, I’ve been commuting to nowhere.

I call it my fake commute.

At first, it was a joke. My roommate caught me brushing my hair one morning and said, “Got a meeting?” I didn’t. But I needed something to separate sleep from screens, to mark a line between life and work when everything now feels like one endless scroll. That day, I got on the subway, rode 11 stops, bought a konjac jelly from GS25, and came home. I felt… better.

So I did it again. And again. And now it’s a ritual.

⸻

There’s a phrase we use a lot lately: 나만의 루틴—“my own routine.” It means a small habit that’s just yours, like walking around the block before logging into Zoom, or lighting a candle while answering emails. For me, it’s this: catching the train with no destination, letting the city move around me while I stay still.

In the mornings, the subway is filled with real commuters. High school students in uniforms with earbuds tucked under their collars. Women in Uniqlo suits reapplying lipstick between stops. Exhausted men in dark parkas clutching 7-Eleven coffee. No one looks at anyone. We’re all inside our bubbles.

But somehow, being among them—even anonymously—grounds me.

The truth is, remote work isn’t always the dream people think it is. Yes, I can work in pajamas. But I also eat in the same chair where I design, where I doomscroll, where I daydream about quitting. The walls of my studio apartment feel smaller when I don’t leave them. I’ve stopped wearing real clothes. Some days I realize I haven’t spoken out loud in hours.

So I invented a commute. I made the city my office lobby.

I’m not alone. On TikTok Korea, the hashtag #가짜출근 (#FakeCommute) has over 4 million views. Some people walk to a convenience store just to buy milk and walk back. Others bring their laptops to cafés, not because they want to, but because it reminds them they exist. We’re lonely, maybe. But we’re also improvising ways to stay sane.

In a 2023 report by the Korea Employment Information Service, 78% of workers under 30 said they preferred some kind of hybrid or remote setup—but 62% reported “time distortion” or difficulty maintaining routine. A quarter said they struggled with loneliness. These aren’t just stats to me. They’re my DMs, my group chats, my neighbors.

One friend takes the bus two stops every morning, then walks back while listening to a podcast. Another goes to Mangwon Market before work just to smell the food stalls. We’ve all become amateur urban choreographers, creating rhythm where the city used to give us structure.

⸻

My route is always the same: Line 2 to Euljiro 3-ga, then a transfer to Line 3 just for one stop. I love the lighting in the transfer tunnel—it’s always golden, like a commercial. I walk slowly, latte in hand, pretending I’m in a movie. It sounds ridiculous, but I think fantasy is part of survival now.

After I come home, I sit down at my desk. My cat stretches next to my keyboard. My inbox has filled up. But I feel a little more present, like I’ve stepped into the day instead of falling into it.

This morning I saw a girl about my age sketching on an iPad in the corner seat. She wore flared jeans and a giant pair of headphones. We made eye contact and half-smiled—one of those brief commuter acknowledgments that means “I see you.” I wondered if she was commuting to nowhere too.

⸻

The subway is not romantic. It smells like metal and mildew. Sometimes it’s so crowded I hold my breath. But it reminds me that Seoul exists beyond my algorithm. It reminds me that I’m part of a larger pattern, even if I’m not going anywhere.

One day I’ll go back to an office. Or I’ll move. Or I’ll get tired of this ritual and invent a new one. But for now, my fake commute is real to me. It’s the most honest part of my day.

By Yoon Seo-jin