"What kind of story are you writing, sister?" Minjoo asked softly, her voice carrying a warmth Eun-ha rarely felt.
Eun-ha's lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes betrayed the exhaustion that never left her. "It's about surviving an apocalypse," she murmured, almost as if the words themselves were too heavy to speak.
"That sounds like a good story," Minjoo said with quiet enthusiasm, her gaze steady and full of hope.
Eun-ha hesitated, her smile faltering. "I don't know… I don't think anyone would like it."
Minjoo leaned closer, her voice firm and unwavering. "Don't worry about others. I'll be your first fan. Your best fan."
Eun-ha's heart softened, her sister's words wrapping around her like a fragile embrace. Yet, deep within, a familiar ache stirred, and her thoughts turned inward. People who grow up without love from their parents often write stories of perfect, happy families. But the truth is, they can't truly capture happiness. How can you create something you've never known?
Instead, they pour their wounds onto the page, carving their pain into every word. They make their characters tragic, like themselves—scarred by broken families, haunted by silences that should have been filled with love. Their stories bleed with longing, with the ache of what they can never have.
Eun-ha stared at her trembling hands, her thoughts as heavy as the air around her. Perhaps that's why my story feels so raw, so heavy. It's not just fiction—it's my reflection, my confession. I can't write joy, because I've never truly felt it. I give my pain to my characters, and in their tragedies, I find my voice.
She glanced at Minjoo, who watched her with quiet devotion, and for a moment, Eun-ha felt a flicker of warmth in the cold void of her heart. Her sister's words were like a fragile thread, pulling her back from the edge.
Minjoo didn't know it, but she was Eun-ha's light, the only reason she kept writing, kept breathing. And as Eun-ha's lips curved into another faint smile, she thought, Maybe the story isn't about survival after all. Maybe it's about finding the light in the middle of the apocalypse.
"I'm tired… I should get some sleep," Eun-ha whispered, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion that went far beyond her body.
Minjoo turned to her, her eyes wide with concern. "Sister… are you really tired?" she asked, her voice fragile, as though she feared the answer.
Eun-ha looked at her, surprised by the question. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Then Eun-ha smiled faintly, a sad curve of her lips. "My tiredness isn't the kind that can be cured by sleep," she said softly. "It's strange… I thought I was tired, but it turns out I'm not just tired—I'm tired."
Minjoo's shoulders sank, her head bowing as if the weight of Eun-ha's words pressed down on her too. She stared at the ground, her voice trembling as she said, "Sister… I'm afraid. Afraid that one day you'll disappear from my side."
Eun-ha's heart clenched. The pain in Minjoo's voice felt sharper than the ache in her own frail body.
Minjoo lifted her tearful eyes to meet Eun-ha's. "Sometimes, life isn't about anything grand. Sometimes, it's just about passing the days. Can't you pass your days with me?"
Eun-ha stared at her sister, her chest tightening with guilt and love. Would life have been different if I'd known how much she loved me? Would I have fought harder if I'd realized I wasn't alone in this storm?
Her voice softened as she reached out, gently holding Minjoo's trembling hands. "Who said I'm going to leave you this early?" Eun-ha said, her voice steady, though her heart felt like it was breaking.
Minjoo's lips quivered, and tears spilled freely down her cheeks. But then, through her sorrow, a small, bright smile appeared—a smile so full of love and hope that it lit the dimmest corners of Eun-ha's weary soul.
In that moment, Eun-ha realized that Minjoo's smile was her anchor, her fleeting reason to hold on a little longer. For her sister, for this fragile bond that still tied them together, she could pass one more day.
Suddenly, the door to Eun-ha's room burst open, startling both sisters.
Eun-ha and Minjoo turned to see their older brother standing there, his figure framed by the dim hallway light. His face was etched with sorrow, guilt pooling in his eyes as he hesitated, as if searching for words that refused to come.
Eun-ha's chest tightened at the sight of him, but she quickly masked her emotions, her voice cold and biting. "Minjoo," she said, her words sharp enough to cut, "take this stranger out of my room."
Minjoo turned to their brother, her expression torn between anger and pity. "Didn't you hear her? Get out," she said, her voice firm but trembling.
Their brother didn't flinch. Instead, his voice came, soft and hesitant. "Are you really dying?" he asked, the words hanging heavy in the air.
Eun-ha froze for a moment before her gaze hardened, rage and heartbreak intertwining in her eyes. "Why?" she spat, her voice rising. "Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that why you abandoned me? So you could live your life, find your happiness, and leave me behind to suffer?"
Her voice cracked as she screamed, years of pain and betrayal pouring out in every word. "Do you think you can come back now? Do you think your guilt makes anything better?" Her breath hitched, her frail body trembling under the weight of her emotions.
Her brother's face crumbled, but he said nothing. His silence was louder than any apology could have been. Without a word, he turned and walked out, his head bowed in shame.
Minjoo followed, her eyes blazing. "Leave her alone!" she shouted, her voice shaking as she pushed him out. The door closed behind them, leaving Eun-ha alone in the suffocating quiet.
Eun-ha collapsed onto her bed, her body curling into itself. She hugged herself tightly, as if trying to shield herself from the unbearable ache inside her chest. Her tears came in torrents, soaking the pillow beneath her.
"It hurts… it hurts so much…" she whispered, her voice barely audible as the sobs wracked her frail frame. Her mind swirled with a thousand memories—his laughter, his absence, the moments when she had needed him most, and he wasn't there.
The betrayal carved deep into her heart. She had loved him once, trusted him. And he had walked away, leaving her to fight battles she was too weak to fight alone.
"Why did you come back now?" she thought bitterly. "To ease your guilt? To see what's left of the sister you abandoned?"
The room was cold, but her pain burned hotter than any fire. She felt hollow, like a shell of the person she used to be, and all she could do was cry—cry for the girl she had once been and the love she had never received.