Early in the morning,
I stood before the hospital, my heart a hollow ache, my thoughts a cruel whirlwind. How could this be real? How could my sister—my little sister—Seo Eun-ha, be dying of stage four cancer?
My legs moved on their own, carrying me down the cold, sterile hallways. The world blurred around me—too bright, too quiet, too heavy to bear.
"Mr. Seo, it's your appointment now," a nurse's voice called softly, as though she feared breaking something fragile.
I followed her into the doctor's office, my voice trembling as I asked about Eun-ha. At first, he hesitated, as if the truth was too harsh to share. When I showed him proof that I was her brother, his expression darkened, etched with something close to pity.
"We don't know for certain," he said finally, his words slow and careful. "But… her mental and physical health suffered greatly from a young age. It's possible her body… gave up."
Gave up.
The words cut through me like shards of glass. How broken does someone have to be for their body to abandon them? How much pain had she carried alone? I left the hospital in a haze, my thoughts spiraling.
"I will destroy him."
The thought repeated itself, louder and louder, until it became a roar in my chest.
When I reached home, the rage finally erupted. My father's room—his sanctuary—was the first target. I tore through it like a storm, breaking everything I could get my hands on. The sound of shattering glass filled the silence he never deserved.
"What are you doing?!" My father's voice thundered behind me.
I turned to face him, my breathing ragged, my voice trembling with fury and grief.
"This is your fault!" I shouted, my words a raw accusation, but my father… he didn't flinch.
"It's not just me," he spat bitterly, his voice sharp as a knife. "This family… all of us are to blame. You abandoned her, just like the rest of us. You turned your back when she needed you most.Your mother didn't even bother to call the police."
His words hit me harder than any blow ever could.
I froze. The truth was unbearable because I could see it now—I had abandoned her too. I had let her drift into darkness, alone.
The fight left my body. My hands fell to my sides, my breath shallow. I turned and walked away, defeated.
As I passed through the hallway, my mother stood there, watching me. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but it was the way she looked at me that crushed me completely—so full of pain, regret, and guilt.
She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
So pitiful.
In that moment, I understood. We were all guilty. This family, bound together by blood, had turned into something far colder. We had let Eun-ha fall, piece by piece, until she had nothing left.
I walked past my mother, unable to meet her gaze. But her silence followed me—an echo of the sister I had failed to save.
Eun-ha was four years younger than me. From the moment I was born, my father hated me. I was nothing to him but a burden, a mistake that should never have existed. His hatred became my shadow, following me through every room, every glance, every strike of his hand. But Eun-ha… Eun-ha was different. She was loved. She was his light.
I watched as he adored her with a tenderness I could never hope for. And the more he loved her, the more I hated myself—and her. Not because she had done anything wrong, but because I couldn't understand why I wasn't worthy of the same love. While he showered her with care, he turned to me with fists and words sharp enough to cut. He hit me without reason, and I could do nothing but endure it.
I wanted to escape. I wanted to disappear from the life I never chose.
Then, one day, everything shattered.
I was in middle school. I came home that afternoon, still wearing my school uniform, when I saw it—my father, towering over Eun-ha, his hand raised in rage. A sickening crack echoed through the room as his palm struck her cheek, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock and tears.
For a moment—just one horrible, fleeting moment—I felt a twisted sense of relief. Finally. Finally, I thought, he sees her flaws too. Finally, he has found someone else to pour his anger onto.
But that feeling—shameful and dark—was swallowed by something colder. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. I just stood there, watching as Eun-ha clutched her cheek, tears falling silently down her face. And in that silence, I saw her looking at me, searching for something—help, comfort, me.
But I had nothing to give.
That night, I packed my things. My hands trembled as I shoved my clothes into a bag, the sound of the zipper far too loud in the stillness of the house. My mind repeated the same thought over and over: I have to leave. I have to get out.
I crept through the dark hallway, the house so silent it felt like a graveyard. When I reached the door, I thought I was free. But just as my hand touched the handle, I heard her voice—soft, small, trembling.
"Oppa…"
I turned, and there she was—Eun-ha. Her face was pale, still red where our father had struck her, and her eyes… her eyes were filled with tears so heavy they looked like they could drown her. She ran toward me, grabbing my wrist with both hands, her little fingers shaking.
"Don't go," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please don't leave me. Don't abandon me."
Her words struck me like a knife to the heart, but I didn't look at her. I couldn't. I kept my gaze on the door, on the way out, as if freedom was the only thing that mattered.
"Eun-ha," I said quietly, my voice hoarse, "I can't stay here."
"You promised…" she sobbed, her hands clinging tighter. "You promised you'd protect me! Please, don't go! Don't leave me alone with him!"
Her words echoed through the darkness, but I pulled my arm free. For a moment, I thought I heard something break—whether it was her heart or mine, I didn't know. I couldn't look back, because if I did, I would see the betrayal written on her face.
I opened the door and stepped out. The cold night air hit me like a wall, but it wasn't enough to cool the fire of guilt burning inside me. Behind me, I could still hear her crying—soft, broken sobs that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
I didn't look back.
I ran.
I ran through the empty streets, my bag swinging at my side, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The stars above me seemed colder than ever, distant and uncaring. I told myself that I was free now, that I had escaped that house, that man, that life.
But no matter how far I ran, I couldn't outrun the sound of her voice.
"Please, don't leave me."
Those words echoed in my mind like a curse. I tried to silence them. I told myself it wasn't my fault. She would be fine without me. She was the one who had always been loved, always been protected. I was the unwanted one—what difference would it make if I were gone?
When I reached my grandmother's house, I thought I would finally feel safe. It was a small, quiet home in a town so far away it felt like another world. My grandmother welcomed me with gentle hands and a worried smile, asking no questions. I told myself I had done the right thing.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Life moved on, but Eun-ha's voice never left me. I dreamed of her often—her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands, her broken plea. In my dreams, she always asked me the same question:
"Why did you leave me?"
And no matter how many times I tried to answer, the words never came.
It wasn't until years later, when I stood before her hospital bed and watched her fragile body struggle for every breath, that I realized the truth. I had abandoned her—not just that night, but every day after. I had left her to face a monster alone because I thought escaping my pain would save me.
But I was wrong.
And now, I would give anything—anything—to go back to that night, to hold her hand, to tell her, "I won't leave you."
But time doesn't grant second chances.
And some mistakes can never be undone.