On the third floor of a community centre in Dongdaemun in Seoul’s east, a massage chair hums gently at the entrance to an airy room – a cool refuge from the sweltering summer heat.

Inside, the space buzzes with quiet activity: soft bleeps from a touchscreen board game, muted chatter from the cooking area, the rustle of turning pages.

Eom Mi-hui, 53, settles into an infrared foot spa with a look of contentment on her face. “This feels really nice,” Eom says. “My body isn’t feeling great, so I think the foot spa helps.” She then moves next to the massage chair.

This venue is one of Seoul’s “mind convenience stores”, places where residents struggling with loneliness can sit in comfort, enjoy a simple meal, watch a film, or simply spend time in company. People don’t have to talk. The idea is that even passive interactions can help combat the city’s loneliness epidemic. Counsellors are available for those ready for deeper support.

In Seoul, home to nearly 10 million people, single-person households have surged from 16% to nearly 40% of all homes in just over two decades. A 2022 Seoul Institute survey found that 62% of single-person households report experiencing loneliness, while city estimates suggest 130,000 young people suffer from social isolation.

Nationwide, more than 3,600 “lonely deaths” – people who die alone and remain undiscovered for extended periods – were recorded in 2023.

Late last year, Mayor Oh Se-hoon launched his “Seoul without loneliness” initiative, a five-year programme investing 451.3bn won (£242m) to tackle the issue, stating that “low happiness levels, high suicide rates and depression are all related to loneliness”.

‘We needed to address loneliness itself’

Eom, who lives alone and has struggled with mental health difficulties, discovered the centre through a district newsletter. “When you’re feeling low, staying at home just makes things worse,” she says.

“There’s really nowhere to go, and just putting on shoes can be hard. But when there’s a place like this, I think, ‘I’ll go there’, and coming out seems easier.”

The Dongdaemun branch is one of four pilot sites that opened in March.

The “convenience store” concept deliberately sidesteps stigma while drawing on a touchstone of Korean culture. Pyeonuijeom are neighbourhood fixtures where people casually drop in throughout the day to buy snacks or a drink.

This familiarity makes the space in Dongdaemun feel approachable. As Eom puts it: “It’s like a mix of a cafe and convenience store.”

“The loneliness policies we previously had in our country were for people in isolated states who were at a crisis point,” says Kim Se-heon from Seoul’s new anti-loneliness department. “But we realised we needed to address loneliness itself – that is, the subjective emotional state that exists before isolation and withdrawal.”

Alongside the convenience stores, the city has launched other programmes, including a 24-hour loneliness hotline in April. By early July, the service had received more than 10,000 calls, surpassing its annual target of 3,000. Nearly 6,000 were people calling simply because they felt lonely and needed to talk, with 63% being middle-aged, 31% young adults, and just 5% seniors.

A place to belong

At the Dongdaemun site, visitors complete a short five-question loneliness assessment before using the facilities. They can prepare instant noodles, with meal frequency depending on their assessed isolation level.

Lee Won-tae, 51, says the centre has quickly become part of his daily routine. New to the area and still building connections, he visits almost every day as part of a walking routine due to trouble with his legs.

“I don’t have many close friends yet,” he says. “I walk a lot, but when I go too far, it gets difficult. I come here, take a break, then keep going.”

Like Eom, he doesn’t seek intense socialisation. “Just being able to rest in a place like this feels more right for me.”

Yoo Dong-heon, the social worker who manages the Dongdaemun centre and provides counselling to visitors, says demand has exceeded all expectations with a steady increase in daily users.

“People come not just from other districts in Seoul but from cities outside the capital, including Gimpo, Uijeongbu and even Ansan,” he says.

“This morning, someone came who had attempted suicide multiple times, with wounds still visible on their hands,” he says. “For people like that, we immediately connect them to welfare services.”

Peer support

As a volunteer “healing activity counsellor” at the centre, Lee In-sook doesn’t offer quick fixes but perhaps something more valuable: the knowledge that someone else has walked this path.

Ten years ago, her marriage ended after more than two decades. With two children to raise and no financial support, she spiralled into despair.

“I became powerless and didn’t want to do anything,” she recalls. “But I had children to raise, so I had to pull myself together.”

Her recovery was long and hard-won, but now, she uses that experience to guide others.

“Young people worry about jobs and the future. Middle-aged people face economic difficulties and forced retirement. Older people struggle with poverty and health issues.”

Now working at the centre once a week, her approach is built on patience. “Some people come here and won’t talk to strangers at first. That’s normal. But gradually, as they get familiar with the space, they start to feel comfortable sharing.”

For her, the centre represents something that formal services often miss: genuine human connection.

“That’s something money can’t buy.”