Connecomania

Who is this gentle Giant?

Back in school, my classmates had always been afraid of me. I was always the tallest and more intimidating one. I never understood why. I was so shy I barely spoke, let alone threatened anybody. Honestly, I didn't mind being a loner since that way I didn't have to strain myself by having a social life. I never really liked talking with my classmates, they were too bright, and far too much for me to handle. Sure, I did want friends, but I also didn't want anyone to be isolated because they were friends with me. You see what I mean? I'd rather be alone than cause anybody trouble.That peace didn't last long.It was. . . an accident. A stupid one. I wasn't trying to hurt anyone. I've never tried to hurt anyone. I was in my first year of high school, putting my shoes away, half-asleep like always, when someone ran up behind me to tap my shoulder. I didn't even think; I just turned around too fast. My elbow hit him square in the chest, and he slammed into the wall behind him. All eyes were on me and the other student. I can't get that image out of my head. The shock, the fear in his eyes. I didn't mean to. It froze me in place. He said he was fine, that he didn't need any help. But in the end, stories and change. " Haruki snapped. ", " Haruki shoved him. ", " Haruki is dangerous. " Haha. I didn't say anything, didn't try to correct the rumors. None would've listened to me anyway. Rumors don't care about the truth, it only cares about what spreads, no matter how false it may be.After that. . . I tried to shrink into myself. Not physically, that was impossible. I kept growing no matter what I did, which in turn only made my school life worse. Each passing day, I felt myself curling smaller and smaller. I kept my arms tucked in, walked slower, and avoided crowds. I checked my surroundings constantly, terrified of hurting someone again. Every time someone brushed past me, my chest tightened. I thought, What if I hurt them again? What if I knock someone over? What if they get scared of me? I apologized so much it became a reflex. Teachers said I was polite. I just didn't want to cause more trouble. I wanted school to be over just so I could live life in peace. It was tiring having constant eyes on my back, constant whispers near my ears. I just wanted to be left alone.Once school was over, I moved out immediately after I got the chance. I didn't really feel like going to college. It felt like too much of a hassle and I really didn't want to go through the same thing again. So I got myself a job at a convenience store and lived my life isolated from the world. I thought that would be it for me ⸻ a boring, uneventful life with no one expecting anything from me except stocking shelves and mumbling a timid " irasshaimase ". People came and went without really looking at me, and I was grateful for that. Sometimes a customer would try to make small talk, and I'd panic so hard I'd drop whatever I was holding. They probably thought I was weird, but at least they weren't afraid of me the way my classmates had been. Still. . . that life, that way of living. . . it was lonely. I'd wake up, work, go home, eat something half-warm, then lie on my futon staring at the ceiling. Some nights I'd hear my neighbors laughing with friends, or playing games together, or inviting people over. I never resented them for it. I just wondered what that felt like. . . being wanted, being welcomed, being. . . easy to talk to. I kept telling myself my life wasn't so bad, that at least I had some peace.Then, one night after my shift, I couldn't sleep. So I decided to browse some stuff online, anything that could distract me from my negative thoughts. People say ASMR helps with insomnia, and I needed anything that would make the hours pass faster. I typed " whisper " into the search bar, then " sleep ", and then " comfort ". It wasn't something I thought I'd be into, but I pressed play anyway. I won't lie, my whole body tingled and my ears tickled. " It's okay, you're safe. " It hit me harder than I expected. No one had spoken to me like that in years, maybe ever. My chest tightened, and I had to press the heel of my palm against my chest because it suddenly hurt in a way that felt. . . achingly good. When the video ended, I was fully awake. I stared at the recommended section and clicked another. It was a different type of world, full of people who spoke without fear or hesitation. Until. . . I scrolled a little too far, and my curiosity took over me. I glanced at the title, and gasped.[ Boyfriend whispers you to sleep ( mouth sounds ) ]
And another:
[ Dom lover ASMR / / deep voice / / teasing ]Oh. . . O-Oh. Oh. I didn't click on it at first, I was too embarrassed. The idea itself felt. . . unusual ( not to mention embarrassing! ). People made. . this? Out loud? On purpose?! And people listened to it?! I could feel my face burn at the thought of even trying to listen to it. I rolled onto my stomach like a coward and hid my face in the pillow even though no one could see me. My entire body felt too hot, too flustered just from reading a title. But, I was curious. I was so curious I couldn't resist the urge. After all, who was it for? Who listened to this? Not me, for sure. Though that's a lie.So, I clicked on it.I felt it right in my ear. " Spread your legs for me. Yeah, just like that. . . I wanna hear how wet you are. " I think my soul left my body. I threw my headphones so far that they hit the wall. Obviously, this was for women, yup. Definitely. My ears were burning so hard I thought they might melt clean off. I sat upright on my futon like someone had dumped ice on me, heart beating way too fast for someone who had only listened for, what, two seconds? Three? I pressed my hands to my face, groaning into my palms, half in embarrassment, half in something else ( you know what I mean, I'm not saying it! ). And then, a thought pressed itself into my mind: my voice is deep too. I mean, yeah, but. . . could I even bring myself to do such a thing? I wasn't. . . charming, or bold, or seductive, or anything close to what that audio guy was doing. But still. . . could I? Could I do that? I turned it over in my mind slowly, trying to really, really think it over. In the end, ASMR artists were just a mic and a voice. I wouldn't have to worry about how I looked or how tall I was. It was a world where I could be. . . whoever I wanted.So guess what I did? Yeah, I bought a mic.It wasn't an expensive one, like the ones ASMR artists show off in their thumbnails. I stared at the checkout page for a long time before pressing the button. My ears buzzed like I was doing something illegal, or at least something deeply inappropriate. Well, it was technically inappropriate, just not in the way most people thought. Maybe it was the simple, aching desire to be a version of myself people weren't afraid of. The mic arrived three days later, by the way. Three painfully slow, agonizingly long days where every time I heard footsteps near my apartment door, I panicked, terrified the delivery guy would knock and force me into a face-to-face interaction. Thankfully, even though he knocked and ringed the door bell, he ended up leaving it on my doorstep. I put it on the table, and stared at it. Was this okay? Am I okay? I walked away, came back and stared at it again. For a while, I didn't touch it. I told myself I'd return it. That it was a stupid idea. That there was no point trying something that would only make me feel even more embarrassed when I inevitably failed. But I just couldn't get the idea ourt of my head. The confidence and control in their voice ⸻ the way their fans complimented them and showered them with love and affection with each release.I wanted that. I wanted that so badly.So I tried. At first, I couldn't even whisper anything into the mic. But when I did, I never stopped. I didn't release anything at first, I just practiced. Though listening to myself was far more embarrassing than I expected, especially with the type of content I was creating with my voice. There was a point in the recording where I accidentally used a more commanding tone that went with a simple, and firm " open your mouth for me ", a-and the moment I played it back, I felt my whole body flush. I was so surprised by the way I sounded, I audibly gasped into my sleeve. I had never sounded like that in real life. I didn't even know I could sound like that. And if it affected me that much. . . what would it do to someone else? I just couldn't stop wondering. It was a question that just wouldn't leave me alone.I started working on the script after I decided I should just give it a shot. It wasn't an explicit one. I was too shy for that one. But it was something intimate, something that I thought would make someone weak in the knees. The toughest part of it all was creating an account. But after hours of pacing and arguing with myself in circles, I finally did. Named myself Nemuharu ⸻ didn't add a profile picture, bio, or even a hint of who I was. They didn't need to know. All I had to do now was record something and upload it. But that was the hard part, wasn't it? I fought so hard against myself until I finally did it.And, haha, it was well received.I was shivering by how nervous I was. I must've refreshed the page a hundred times with each new notification sending my stomach spiraling deeper and deeper into something I wasn't used to. . . attention. The comments came in slowly, and they weren't a lot, but every single one made my heart knock against my ribs so hard I thought the neighbors might hear it.He sounds so gentle. . .
Where did this guy come from?? That voice???
Haru-kun. . . please do more.
But the comment that made me do a double take. . .
You'd sound amazing doing NSFW. I bet your voice would ruin people.Ruin? Me? What did that even mean in this context?! Well. . . okay, I knew what it meant. I wasn't that innocent, but imagining me doing that ( my voice making someone feel like that ), sent a wave of dizziness through me so strong I had to sit up before I passed out. Still, I wanted to try. I might as well, yeah? People liked my voice so much they were willing to pay for it, and some liked it so much more that they were willing to pay more just to hear me moan into the mic. So I did end up trying it out. And I got popular pretty quick. I guess my voice had the appeal for this type of content. My account exploded the moment I uploaded my first NSFW release. Comments, tips, private messages ⸻ some thirsty, some sweet, some dangerously flattering. A few were so explicit I literally dropped my phone and had to pace around the apartment to cool down. I got few. . . requests to meet in person, but I declined them. It didn't feel real at first. I'd open my phone half-asleep in the morning and blink at the flood of notifications like they had to belong to someone else. And yet. . . every time I looked in the mirror, I still saw the same awkward, hulking guy who hunched his shoulders to take up less space.Even so, the messages just kept coming.
Your voice made me lose my mind, Haru-kun.
If I met you in person, I wouldn't let you leave my bed.
Please. . . please moan again in the next one.Whoaaaa. . . Yeah. I never knew what to do with those kinds of messages. But then. . . came the other messages, the ones wanting to meet me, take pictures together, and uh . . . " collaborate " together. Those messages scared me more than high school rumors ever did. I suppose popularity comes with its ups and downs. It arrived like rain I had no umbrella for. It wasn't something I could've eased my way into. But one night, I realized something: after scrolling through too many comments that were equal parts flattering and unsettling, my thumb stopped over a message that was very simple, honest. It wasn't anything too big, just a short little message:I wish you were real.Ah. . . How wistful. I see now, but it still hit harder than anything else I'd read. They didn't want me. They wanted the character I created: Nemuharu, not Haruki. They wanted the idea of me, the curated illusion of myself. Hah, of course they would! Who am I kidding? Who would want a shut-in like me, anyway? I don't even want me. Nemuharu was the one they adored. Nemuharu was confident, alluring, and in control. And Haruki. . . Haruki could barely hold eye contact with a cashier. Haruki dropped apples on the floor when someone said " good morning " too enthusiastically. Haruki got so flustered by compliments that he had to hide his face in his sleeves. Of course they preferred the version of me who wasn't real. But instead of wallowing in self-pity, I decided to record something." I wish I were real for you, too. "But I'm not, and that's okay. It was humiliating how much my voice cracked when I said that, but it was also the most honest thing I'd said in years. I hit stop. Saved the file. I didn't upload it, it wasn't for the,but for me. That somewhere under the fantasy I'd accidentally created, I still existed.Maybe, people didn't want me the way I was.
But I was learning, little by little, to want myself.

• Return?

Who is the one who endures?

I was seventeen when they died. And no, it wasn't a fucking surprise. It wasn't clean or dramatic or even loud. It was slow; one of those things you can feel rotting in the walls months before anyone says it out loud. The debt collectors stopped being polite. The lights flickered more than they stayed on. Mom cried more often than she talked. And Dad. . . he just disappeared inside himself one day and never crawled back out. So no, when I came home and found the place cold and still and the note on the counter? It didn't knock the wind out of me. I just stood there, staring at it like maybe the words would change if I waited long enough.News flash: It did not.Romy was screaming in the other room. Six months old, still pink-cheeked and loud as hell. Didn't even know what she'd lost, and maybe that was a mercy. I picked her up, fed her, changed her diaper with the last one we had left, and held her until she wore herself out. She looked at me with these big, dark eyes like I was already her whole fucking world. And I guess I was, because by the time I made the call, by the time I told them my parents were gone and I was all that was left, I already knew I wasn't letting anyone take her. I didn't care what the law said. I didn't care what the hell ' proper guardianship ' meant. I was hers. She was mine. That was it.Dropped out of school the next day. Started working two weeks later. Anything I could get; unloading haulers, rigging scaffolds, welding units no one wanted to touch. I lied about my age, and no one asked questions. Didn't take long for people to figure out I was quiet, fast, and didn't fuck around. They stopped watching me after that. Just gave me the hard shit and expected it done. I delivered. The money wasn't good, but it was something. I learned to stretch it. I skipped meals. . . she didn't. I slept on floors. She got the bed. I worked shifts that made my hands bleed. She got birthday candles on cupcakes even when we couldn't afford heat. and I wouldn't want it any other way.I still work construction. I specialize in scaffolding and manual override ops for the site units. Mostly semi-autonomous loaders and line-arm bots. I've got scars on my hands, on my back, on my thighs. I walk like I'm always sore, because I am. My boots are falling apart. I've been meaning to replace them for a year now. Romy's four and she's everything. She's loud, curious, and soft. Thinks the world is made of stars and candy and that her big brother can lift mountains. I let her think that. I hold up every cracked piece of this life just so she doesn't see how close everything is to falling down. She calls me ' Evie ' in that half-laughing way, like it's a name made of sugar, and I pretend it doesn't break something in me every time she says it.But underneath it all? There's nothing, I'm empty.Most nights I sit on the bathroom floor after she's gone to sleep. The tile's cold and the lights stay off. I take the box cutter out from the back of the cabinet. . . the one wrapped in cloth inside a cracked shaving kit. It's always clean, familiar. I push my pants down just far enough and drag the blade across the softest part of my inner thigh. It's not deep, just enough to break skin, just enough to sting. I do it again. . . and again. Sometimes I bleed more than I mean to and sometimes I soak through the towel, but I always stop. I always wrap it up. . . I-I always get up when I'm done. It's not about dying. It's about staying present. It's about feeling something real when everything else feels like air and metal and silence. The cuts mean I'm still here. . . the sting lets me breathe and I can cover it up. I wear thick pants. No one looks at me that long anyway.Except her, little Rose-Marie.Even on the worst nights. . . she knows. I don't think she understands it, but she knows. When I sit there shaking, blood crusting against cheap cloth, she comes padding in on bare feet. Her voice is always soft. . . A-always the same. " Evie? " And. . . I freeze. I always freeze. She climbs into my lap like she belongs there, wraps her arms around my neck, and presses her head against my chest like she's trying to hold me together with her body. That stuffed bear ( torn ear, patched belly ) always gets wedged between us. I've tried to stop crying in front of her, but it doesn't matter. . . Sh-She always knows. " You're sad." She says. Not like a question, like it's raining, like it's just part of the night. " It's okay. I'll stay. " And she does. She stays until I can breathe again, until the bleeding stops. . . until I remember who I am.I hate that she's the one saving me. I hate that I let it get that far. That she's too young to know what it means but old enough to feel it. She deserves better than this. . . b-b-etter than me, but I don't let her go. I never do, because no one stayed for me and I'll be damned if I don't stay for her.So I wake up. I go to work. I pack her lunch. I lie. I bleed. I live.
Because she's still here.
Because when I'm breaking, she says my name like it means I'm still worth saving." Evie. " And I hold on.

• Return?

Who is the one who endures?

I wasn't supposed to survive the crash. The way the car wrapped around that tree; metal curling like paper, glass exploding into air. . . no one should've made it out, but I did. I remember the silence after it happened more than the impact itself. That thick, awful silence where the world just. . . paused. My father's neck wasn't right. My mother wasn't breathing. and I was still in the driver's seat, drunk, conscious, broken but breathing. I remember thinking, why am I still here? I ask myself that almost every day.I don't walk anymore. My spine didn't shatter cleanly; it twisted, crushed nerves, collapsed something vital in the tangle of my lower back. Partial damage, they said. Some control, haha, some hope ( yeah, right! ). But " some " doesn't get you far when your legs tremble trying to hold you up and your bladder forgets how to be a bladder. So I live in a chair, a custom one. I push it like I'm trying to outrun something I know I'll never shake. People tell me I'm strong. Ugh, I hate that word. Strength implies choice and none of this was a choice.I live alone, in a small place with a modified kitchen, and a hospital bed I never asked for. No parents. . . no siblings. . . no calls. The days are getting worse lately, quieter and cleaner than the one after the crash, but somehow it doesn't make my life any better. I remember how my mom used to hum when she cooked, how my dad never smiled but always made sure I had enough books stacked by my bed. I remember everything. That's the real punishment. . . hic, sob, not the legs that don't work, not the scars, not the chair, but the memories, the weight of what I did. People talk about forgiveness like it's something you give yourself. I don't buy that. Some of us don't get forgiven. . . we just get to live with out guilt.I was named after the muse of history: Clio. My father gave me that name. I don't know if he meant it to be a gift or a burden. Maybe both, but I became history, didn't I? A cautionary tale. A girl who drank too much, drove too fast, and destroyed everything. Sometimes I wonder what they'd think if they saw me now. Would they hate or pity me? Would they look past the damage and see their daughter? I try not to dwell on it, but I do. . . every time I wake up and move. Every time I look in the mirror and see a body that doesn't feel like mine. And God, I miss them so much. It aches in a place no nerve can reach; it's the type of missing that sinks into your heart, that lives under your skin, and that never, ever leaves. I miss being loved by people who never thought I'd need to be forgiven.Every time someone says I'm brave, I want to scream or hit them. . . or worse. I didn't earn this. . . I-I caused it. My body is my punishment and survival my sentence. Sure, I laugh sometimes. I flirt, I joke, I fake being okay so no one feels like they have to ask, but when it's quiet, when I'm alone and everything hurts. . . there's only one truth left:I lived.
And now. . . I have to live with it.

• Return?

The resentful Mother.

I remember. . . the police station. I was crying, snot down my nose, tears down my eyes. I had lost my son. My little creature, my little son, oh. . . my child. I was with him until I wasn't it. He had let go of my hand. I don't know why. But once that happened, he was gone. My mouth kept opening to explain, to apologize, to say I didn't mean to, even though no one had accused me of anything yet. I kept repeating his name, over and over, as if saying it enough would make him appear out of thin air. The officer tried to ask me questions, b-but. . . But I couldn't stop crying. I tried to answer, tell them what he was wearing, what he looked like, all little details I knew by memory. But my mouth was making sounds I didn't even recognize. I remember thinking, absurdly, that if I stayed hysterical enough they would understand the scale of it. That they would see this wasn't just another file, another missing child pinned to a board with a number and a date. I wanted them, so badly, to feel what I felt at that moment. To feel the way the world had tilted the moment his hand slipped from mine, the way the noise of the street swallowed him whole.Oh. . . Oh, I remember his tiny, little hand.I repeated it in my mind endlessly ⸻ the pressure of his fingers, so small and, so, so warm, the split second of distraction, the way I turned back already knowing something had gone wrong. I tried to keep a clear head, to tell myself I'll find him, that I was going to find him. But as hours passed, and as people left. . . I started screaming for him, oh, so desperately. By the time I arrived at the police station, I was already in hysterics. Officers told me to breathe, told me that these things happened. But how can I breathe? My son was my air, my life, my everything. They kept saying children were strong, that most were found within the first forty - eight hours. Hah, they offered hope like it was a requirement, yet they never promised me that he would be found. But I clung to it anyway. Why? Because any other alternative was worse. So, I sat there for hours ( maybe even days ), as officers came in and out of the room. Their faces became blurry at one point; all said the same things, asked the same questions, so I couldn't be bothered with remembering their faces anymore. And every time the door opened, I jumped up. I looked frantic, desperate. I just wanted answers. And every time it closed again, something inside me calcified further.For a time. . . I tried to keep it together.It's. . . a big word: Tried. A week had passed, no sign of him. Then, at 5AM in the morning, my husband got a call. I could tell from his face. . . something was wrong. " Pluma. . . we need to identify a body. " I thought to myself, it couldn't be him. I remember thinking that the words themselves were wrong. As if my son could be reduced to just a body. Over and over. . . I told myself it couldn't be him. It was as if I had rehearsed the denial, as if it were a shield I could hold in front of my chest. Children go missing all the time, they said. Bodies are misidentified. Mistakes can happen. I clung to that belief, to the possibility of error, because believing otherwise felt like stepping off a cliff with my eyes open. By the time we arrived at the morgue, I felt sick. The place didn't smell like anything I've ever smelled before; the air felt sterilized of anything human. My husband's hand hovered on my back, unsure of where to touch or how to comfort me. I knew that he knew that. . . whatever was about to happen would cleave us apart. I remember staring at the sheet that covered the body and throwing up right after. I remember apologizing for that, too. I remember someone handing me water I couldn't drink, tissues I didn't need anymore because there was nothing left in me to spill. I couldn't stand, my knees wouldn't let me. I kept thinking that if I stayed folded over, if I kept my head down, they wouldn't make me look. I remember fighting against myself, bargaining against the proof: If I don't look, he won't be real. If I don't look, he's still somewhere else. The woman kept trying to explain the procedure ⸻ and I hated her for it. I hated that she had done this before. I hated that she would do it again for someone else.My husband helped me up.When they pulled the sheet, I could feel my heart being fractured right in the middle. And for a moment, I felt relief. The shape was wrong, the eyes were missing, the body stitched together like a ragdoll. I thought, no, that's not him. That's not my boy. But then. . . t-then. . . my eyes betrayed me. I saw the small curve of his ear, the faint mark on his skin I used to trace with my thumb without thinking. A detail so insignificant, so cruelly ordinary, that it annihilated every lie I had built to survive the walk into that room. " J-Joonie. . . " After that, the sound that came out of my mouth wasn't human. My husband tried to hold on to me, but he was just as hurt. We both fell to the ground as he held me. I remember clutching at his jacket, not for comfort, but because I needed something solid to prove I hadn't vanished too. I couldn't breathe. Hell, I couldn't even think at that moment.I remember the way they said his name.Not in the way I said it. Not in the way Fernanda said it. They said it as if it were a tool instead of a person. I remember screaming at them to stop. I remember sobbing into my husband's shoulder, choking on the word mine over and over again. He's mine, he's mine, he's mine. As if ownership or love could reverse time. . . undo death. My hands shook so much; I pressed them to my mouth, to my face, to my chest, anywhere but him. I couldn't bring myself to touch him. I knew that if I did, something in me would break further, and in a way I could never fix. And when they finally covered him again, it felt like a second erasure. I felt that he was being taken away from me again. I remember begging in just a hoarse, broken sound, asking for one more second. I don't know if they heard me. I don't know if anyone did. I only know that when they guided us out, I walked because my husband moved, and I moved because my legs still functioned, and nothing else mattered. We arrived home, and I just lay still on my bed like a corpse while my husband arranged for our child's funeral. He moved around the apartment like he still had purpose, something I no longer possessed. The world was continuing its little rituals while mine had ended, and I lay there watching the ceiling as if it might crack open and swallow me whole. I thought to myself that, if I stayed still enough, long enough, I might meet him somewhere.And I did meet him, one last time.He was in a closed casket. Figures. They took everything that made him, him. They told me it was better this way. For you, they said. For the family. I remember nodding because nodding was easier than spill my guts out, because if I opened my mouth, I was afraid I was going to say something no one needed to hear that day. Like the way they looked at me in the station. . . like a problem, like a a woman who could not be managed. Haha, the casket was so small. . . that was the first thing I noticed. I stood there and stared at it, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides, my fingers numb. It felt like he was still here, with us. I wanted to take him out of there and take him home. I wanted to give him his favorite meal and tell him that no matter where he was, I would always be with him. Somewhere behind me, people whispered. Of course they did, why wouldn't they? I was the one who was last seen with him, the last one who held the responsibility to keep him safe. They had dressed him without asking me. Chosen clothes without knowing him. All because they thought I was too unstable to take care of my own child. It made something ugly and hot twist inside my chest. It was. . . Rage. Not at death itself, but at the audacity of it all. The way the world kept making decisions about him even after it had failed him.And even more so. . . at the people that did this to him.Whatever part of me still believed in accidents, in misfortune, in no one meant for this to happen. . . It died right there. Because this was intentional. Someone out there looked at my child, my son, and thought he was expendable. The world had taken something from me and continued breathing as if nothing had changed. I could not accept that. I cannot and will not accept it. People tried to touch me at the funeral. Hands on my arm, my shoulder, my back. I let them, because pulling away would have drawn attention, and I did not want any of that. After the funeral, I lay in bed again. I quit my job, I quit everything. I didn't have the energy for anything. All I wanted was. . . revenge.I started going outside, looking for clues, trying to find out more about organ and child trafficking. I learned how to linger without being noticed, how to sit in public places and let conversations float past me. I read newspapers that used to no t interest me. Unconfirmed reports. Suspected networks. Ongoing investigations. At night, I read until my eyes burned. Reports. Testimonies. Court documents that went nowhere. I started to understand the language of disappearances. People talk about stolen bodies when they don't want to admit they're talking about stolen children. I learned how easily responsibility falls on the parents. Fro, neglect, inattention, and momentary lapse. They made it sound as if we invite evil on purpose, as if my son had wandered into that fate on his own.But the more I did this, the more my husband relied on alcohol.At first, it was subtle, just a tiny glass in the evening. I guess grief gave him an excuse, and his family readily accepted it. Men are allowed to dull themselves, it's the way they cope, they said. I thought so too, for a time. We were grieving in opposite directions, I said to myself. But then it started getting worse. He started staying up later with bottles appearing all over the place. Sometimes he tried to talk to me, his words slurred, begging me to sit with him, to drink with him. Every sip he took felt like him trying to drown out the loss of our child. To forget. I couldn't forgive him for that.Arguments followed after that.Then the accusations. He said I was obsessing. That I was disappearing. That I was neglecting Fernanda. I didn't deny it. I didn't have the energy to defend myself, and part of me knew he wasn't wrong, but he didn't understand that I couldn't afford to stop. I knew that, if I slowed down, if I allowed myself to blur the world with alcohol the way my husband did, my son would vanish again, permanently this time. The more I learned about trafficking. . . the less patience I had for anything else. My husband's drinking felt small compared to what I was uncovering. Tragic, yes, but personal.And then he hit me.The sound was small. I had always imagined that. . . if someone were to hit me it would be loud, like it the movies. But it was still a full punch, thrown with all the weight of everything he refused to face. I remember the force of it snapping my head sideways, the shock blooming before the pain arrived. For a split second, I thought I had fainted while standing. I was dizzy, the room was spinning, and I tasted metal. Oh. . . Oh, I was bleeding. I touched my face in shock, and then looked at him. He froze, looking at his hand like it didn't belong to him. He started apologizing, calling out my name, begging me to understand why he did it. My cheek burned; it hurts. I was mad at how much it hurt. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it, he would claim. But if he didn't mean it, why do it? I remember sighing as I walked past him. My hands were shaking as I grabbed my coat, my phone, whatever was closest. I didn't look at Fernanda's room. I couldn't afford to. I knew if I did, I would stay, and staying would have been a mistake I might not survive twice.Before I had the chance to leave without a word. . . he was there, waiting for me. " I didn't. . . Haa, you just don't listen anymore. " I couldn't help but laugh at him. And that made his face change from worry. . . to defesiveness. He took a step toward me, and my body reacted before my mind did, flinching back the moment he tried to touch me. " Don't. . . don't look at me like that. " I rolled my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. " Like what? " I asked, trying to remain calm. " Like. . . Like I'm the enemy. " Why wouldn't I? I laughed again. " You hit me. . . " I said, quietly and firmly, just so he was aware of what he had just done. " You hit me because you can't stand that I didn't die with him. "And that was what did it.He shouted, his words spilling over each other, accusing me of abandoning him, of abandoning our daughter, of turning our home into a mausoleum. He said I was obsessed, that I was sick, that I needed help. Maybe that's true, maybe he's right. But I knew something else was true, too. I knew that if I kept living with him, we would ruin each other. Because once is enough. Once is all it takes for these behaviors to keep going. Pain does not excuse harm ⸻ it only reveals what someone is willing to become when control slips. When he finally stopped yelling, I walked past him again, opening the door. " Where are you going? " He asked, concern etching onto his face. " Away. " I said, eyes cold. " From you. " I thought of saying goodbye to my daughter first, but I couldn't, not when I was leaving her with the man who struck me. I knew he wouldn't hurt her. I knew that this would only happen once. But, as I've said, once is enough. When I walked out, the cold air hit my face. It was refreshing in a way I couldn't put into words. In the end, I was alone.Grief took my son.
Alcohol took my husband.
And violence took whatever remained of my marriage.I can only hope that my daughter is alright. But who's to say? I abandoned her. I told myself what I had already told myself a hundred times before: He wouldn't hurt her. Fathers who drink don't automatically become monsters. Men who hit their wives don't always hit their children. What if my leaving made it worse? What if my absence gave his anger, made my daughter a new target? I pressed my hands against my eyes until I saw stars. Guilt is such a peculiar thing. It knows exactly when you're too tired to fight it. Responsibility has a way of following women like a shadow. It doesn't matter how much violence precedes the choice, how narrow the options are, how fast the danger comes. There will always be someone ready to say you should have stayed, you should have tried harder, you should have sacrificed more. Hah! As if I didn't sacrifice everything for my children. But it's never enough, never.That's just the curse of being a mother.Never being enough.

• Return?

The Mourful Daughter.

Mom doesn't really mention me in her story. Yeah, she doesn't. Because if she did, people would look at her wrong. I don't blame her, but I do remember. I remember when Joonie and I were excited for this children's event. It was a popular one, I think. You could get all types of coloring books and foreign candy, so I really wanted to go. I think I was eight, and Joonie was four. Yeah, that's about right. I woke up early that day, and I was so excited. Joonie was, too. I remember the way his hair stuck up in the back, asking me if it was today yet. When I said yes, he smiled so wide. His smile was the brightest, you know? He always shone so brightly. Like, you don't get it! He was literally a light in our life. He could make any argument stop, any tension disappear, just by laughing or grabbing your hand. It felt like magic. I miss him so much. . . People think I don't, but I do. It all happened so fast. I still don't fully get it. I think most thought I was too young to understand, but knew what death is. I knew you didn't come back from it, no matter how much you begged the sky for it. And God, did I beg. I begged for it so much.I wish I hadn't asked to go there.Had Joonie and I stayed home, none of this would've happened. I think about that a lot. . . how one small decision spiraled into the worst day of our lives. I should've told mom Joonie was too young, that he could get lost. There wasn't a lot of people at first, not really. But as we kept walking, it became crowded. I remember clutching the edge of mom's coat because her other hand was holding Joonie's. She was also carrying all the stuff we had picked out: free samples, flyers, little souvenirs. Her arms were full, and I think she was trying to juggle too many things at once. The further we walked, the denser the crowd became. I tried to keep my eyes on Joonie because he was smaller than me, and as his big sister I had to. But. . . I was a child too. So, instead of having my attention fully on Joonie, I held on to her coat tighter, because I thought that was enough. Because I assumed she had him.Assumptions are funny things. . . because they feel right until they aren't.I don't remember the exact time we lost him, or the way his hand slipped away. That's the worst part of it all. There's no clean image I can recall or replay. All I remember. . . is the noise. The laughter, the music, the way someone is shouting about discounts or schedules. All of it mixed. And when she turned, just slightly, she looked at me, and then at her hand. Empty. At first, none of us understood what that meant. I remember the way Mom frowned, looking down, then around, like she'd simply misplaced something. She called her name once, softly. " Joonie. . . ? " I remember thinking, he's right there, because of course he was. He had to be. He was always right there. But then she called for him again. . . and again. That's when her voice changed. That's when. . . she left me there, alone. I know that she didn't do it on purpose, at least, I know that now. But when I was that small. . . it felt like the ground giving way beneath my feet. One second, I was laughing with my mom and my little brother, then the next. . . I was left behind in tears as she moved, pushing forward, calling his name louder, faster, like if she didn't stop the sound would disappear too. I remember standing there, stunned, my hand still curled like it was holding something. I wanted to shout, wait, I'm still here, but the words wouldn't come out. I was frozen. I didn't know what to do. So I watched mom get swallowed by the crowd.My panic bloomed slowly. I tried to follow her, but every direction looked wrong. Every adult suddenly looked the same, and every path looked terrifying. I called her name once. It came out so small I barely heard it myself. No answer. Not from her. Not from J-Joonie. And that's when it hit me. Not the thought that Joonie was gone, but the realization that I was lost, too. I remember my hands starting to shake. I remember telling myself to stop crying because crying made things worse. I had already made things worse that day, hadn't I? I told myself to be good. To be quiet. To stay where I was so Mom could find me again. But minutes passed, hours passed. I remember an adult crouching in front of me at some point, asking if I was okay, asking where my parents were. I nodded because I was too afraid to say anything else. I remember saying my mom's name and pointing vaguely into the crowd, my finger trembling. That was enough for them to take my hand. And I am, so, so thankful they did. I hope that person is living their best life. As we walked, I kept looking past them, searching for Mom's coat, for Joonie's stupid little shoes, for anything familiar.I don't remember if mom finally found me, or if I was brought to her. I don't know which is worse, really. The fact that she lost me in the first place or the fact that she didn't even care to look for me. But when I saw her, I understood this wasn't just about me. Her face told me everything I needed to know. I had never seen her look like that. Her eyes were wild, red, unfocused, like she was barely holding herself together. She grabbed me so hard it hurt, crushing me against her chest, sobbing my name over and over like she'd almost lost me too. I remember hugging her back, because something inside me already knew: whatever had just happened was bigger than both of us. People asked so many questions after that. Not to me, but to my mom and dad. I wanted to scream that I was there too. That I had seen him that morning. That I knew his laugh, his voice, the way he said my name. But no one asked me anything. I think that's when I understood that I was invisible, and how quickly adults decide what a child can or can't understand.My family slowly fell apart since then.Mom was. . . absent. From both me and my dad. I never understood why, and dad refused to tell me. What I do know is that mom left the moment my dad put his hands on her. I know because he told me. Not right away. Of course not. Adults never tell you the truth when it's happening ⸻ they wait until it's something you can't undo. I remember sitting across from him at the kitchen table weeks later, maybe months. He didn't look at me when he said it. He just stared at his hands and told me that he'd hurt Mom. . That he'd lost control, that it was a mistake, that he loved her, and that he loved me. I remember my stomach twisting, not because I didn't understand, but because I understood too well. I knew what a punch was. I knew what it meant to be afraid of someone bigger than you. I just hadn't expected that fear to have my father's face. Then, he cried. But I didn't. I think that disappointed him more than if I had.The house felt empty. I saw mom a few times a week, then a few times a month. Then. . . a few times a year. And dad. . . well, he tried. He did. At first, he was cold, unsure of what to do with me. He asked me once if I hated him. I didn't answer. I don't think he expected me to. But after that, he got better. For me. He stopped drinking, and even started going to therapy. He never said it outright, but I think he knew he had to be better. That he couldn't lose me, too. And slowly, he became someone I wasn't scared to hug. He wasn't perfect ( gosh, no! ), but he was present. We even started having inside jokes again. And he never tried to replace Joonie or erase what happened. He just. . . showed up. He kept showing up, even when I didn't say thank you. Even when I snapped at him. Even when I brought up Mom and he got hurt. He took it.He still stayed.
That's what matters, I think.Mom tells the story without me because it's easier that way. Because if she says she lost him while holding my hand, people would ask questions. Questions that don't leave room for accidents.But I remember. I wish I didn't, but I do.I remember thinking, over and over. . .If I had paid more attention, maybe he would still be here.

• Return?