The Fragile line

At night,

Aiko started vomiting.

She didn’t reach out to anyone for help, but her auntie, worried sick, knocked on the door again.

She knocked again. This time, the door creaked open.

Auntie froze. Aiko was standing there, but she looked like a shadow of herself—pale, frail, and hollowed out by pain.

Auntie: "Aiko, what’s happening? Is there anything bothering you?"

Aiko tried to form a response, but her strength gave way. Her knees buckled, and she fainted into the cold air of the room.

When Aiko’s eyes fluttered open, the sterile, biting smell of the hospital greeted her. She was lying in a hospital bed, the steady hum of machines filling the space. Her auntie sat by her side, her face etched with exhaustion.

Auntie looked at her, her voice trembling. "Aiko, why didn’t you say that you were sick lately?"

Aiko didn’t reply. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes vacant. Her auntie took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes brimming with tears. "I called your dad. We are doing your surgery."

The word *surgery* made her heart sink, but she didn’t reply, acting as if she didn’t care. Mina’s mom started making the appointments with the doctor.

Aiko wandered the hospital hallways, a solitary figure in a white gown. She watched other patients, surrounded by the warmth of their families—hands held, tears wiped, soft words whispered. She was the outsider looking in, watching a movie she wasn't invited to be a part of.

She retreated back into her room, locking the door. Her hands began to tremble violently, a tremor she couldn't suppress. She looked at her reflection, then spoke to the empty room, her voice breaking.

"Why do I always end up being alone? Do I not deserve to be loved by anyone?" She let out a choked, desperate sound. "Mom… I don’t want to get surgery. I’m scared."

She cried louder and louder.

Her auntie saw her crying for the first time, but she didn’t say anything. She watched her crying from afar.

Aiko saw her; her blurry eyes spotted her auntie, but she didn’t act strong this time—she just cried more and more. Her auntie ran toward her and hugged her, saying, "It’s okay, babe, I am here."

Aiko’s body was trembling, her hands shaking. She couldn’t control her tears.

Aiko: "Now I don’t want to live. Just let me die. Just… just let me."

Her auntie silenced her: "Don't, don’t say that. You will be fine."

Days later, the surgery was performed. The doctors called it a success, but the reality of the aftermath was a different kind of torture. The pain in her stomach was a constant, sharp companion, and she would weep openly in front of her auntie, the only person left in her orbit.

Aiko: "Where is my family? Why are they not here? Why are they not calling me?"

Auntie wiped Aiko’s forehead, her heart breaking for the girl. "I am here, nah, Aiko. Sleep. Don’t overthink. They said after you recover, they will come to meet you."

Days passed. After so much waiting, she was still alone, watching other people happy and watching herself alone, stuck in the same stage, waiting for her family. At the end of the day, her heart felt dead, even though she was still breathing.

She picked up her pen, her hand shaking as she wrote in her diary:

Watching other people happy is so painful for me when I can’t be in their situation. Am I jealous, or do I just want to be a part of them?

I have been living day after day,

yet death comes only once.

But today, for some reason,

life does not seem very different from death.*

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