'You lose yourself in endless stories, yearning to escape your fractured reality, to be reborn in worlds where dreams come true. If you don't like this life, change it—start over, rewrite it as you please. But even in a realm of fulfilled desires, misery will follow like a shadow, unyielding, and the world itself may deny you the chance to begin anew.'
No matter how much I tried to rewrite the story, it never truly changed—each attempt only brought it back, twisted into something more tragic. It all began on that day, the day I decided to change it.
---
"Mom, she took my doll!"
"Hana, I've told you before, don't take anything that doesn't belong to you."
"But Mom, it's my doll! Dad gave it to me for my 7th birthday."
"Your dad will get you another one. You're the older sister, and you need to be more understanding."
"But Mom, she's not even my real sister!"
Thwack!
The slap stung, more from the pain in my heart than my cheek. Tears spilled down my face as I held my hand against the spot where her hand landed. Mom didn't say another word; she just picked up that adopted daughter—her favorite now—and walked away.
She never holds me like that anymore. It feels like she's chosen her over me. Like I'm no longer her daughter.
From that moment on, everything seemed to belong to her—my room, my toys, even my friends. Slowly, even my parents felt like they were hers. I couldn't help but wonder: why do my parents love her more than me?
---
"Father, now that I have a job, I've decided to move out."
"Are you sure about this? Do you want me to help you get an apartment?"
"Thank you, but it's okay. I can manage the rent with my salary."
"I see. When are you moving out?"
"Today."
He flinched at my words but didn't look at me. Instead, he kept reading the newspaper on the couch. After a moment, he said, "Well, now that you're older, it's your time to take care of yourself. You don't need us anymore."
"You've raised me for the past 26 years, and I've never properly thanked you. Thank you for everything." I bowed my head deeply.
He finally looked at me, his expression softening as if he wanted to say something, but before he could, my mother interrupted. Hugging my younger sister, she said, "I could never let my youngest daughter leave. I'll take care of her until the end of my life."
"Mom, don't say that," my sister replied. "I can't live without you."
I stood there, feeling like a stranger in my own family. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my luggage and stepped outside, leaving the house—and the life I once knew—behind.
---
I moved into a humble rooftop apartment, a tiny sanctuary nestled beneath the open sky. It's small, just a single room with a modest kitchen and a snug little washroom, but it feels like it was made for me. I furnished it simply—a bed for one, a small table. Once I tidied up, the space seemed to glow with a quiet beauty, as if it had been waiting for someone to call it home.
For the first time, I can cook just for myself, without sitting at a table for hours, waiting for others to come. For the first time, I can sleep peacefully, no longer needing earphones to muffle the cruel words that once pierced the walls.
When I opened the door and stepped outside, there was no hesitation, no fear. I didn't have to explain my every move, no more excuses like "I'm just getting water" or "I just need something to eat."
This little apartment, though unassuming, is warm and alive. It's not lonely like that grand, empty mansion ever was. I looked up at the endless sky above me, the breeze brushing against my skin, and for the first time in 18 years, I felt something I thought I'd never know: freedom. Real, unshackled freedom. And with it came a happiness so pure it brought tears to my eyes.
---
Every day, I left for the office at 9 a.m. and returned home at 6 p.m. The routine gave me a fragile sense of peace. But peace, I've learned, is a fleeting illusion.
There were always moments like this:
"Hana, can you help me format this document? I'm not good with the software."
"Hana, could you summarize this report for me? I'm running behind."
"Hana, can you grab the printouts from the copier? I'm stuck on a call."
"Hana, could you schedule a meeting with the clients? You're good at handling that."
"Hana, can you stay back and proofread my presentation? I have to leave early."
At first, I didn't mind. I told myself it was part of being a team, that helping others might make them see me as a friend. I've never had friends, and I thought maybe if I worked hard enough, if I said yes often enough, I'd finally belong. But that day never came.
Instead, the requests became expectations, their work piling on top of mine until I could barely breathe under the weight of it. While they left the office early, smiling and chatting, I stayed behind, the only light left on, finishing what they left undone.
One morning, a colleague noticed my tired expression.
"Hana, did you stay late at the office again?"
"Yes," I replied, forcing a small smile.
"How can they keep dumping all this on you? Why don't you tell Manager Choi?"
I shook my head and laughed bitterly. "Even if I did, nothing would change."
She sighed, giving me a look full of pity, before returning to her desk. That look stayed with me, cutting deeper than any workload.
I thought leaving that house—the cold, empty mansion—would give me freedom, would help me rewrite my story. I thought I could finally start over.
But no matter how far I run, fate refuses to let me escape. My story hasn't changed. Maybe it never will.