Chapter 77

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**Half of Me. (1)**

If someone asked me to recall my very first memory… honestly, I couldn’t say for sure.

To tell the truth, I didn’t even know I was adopted until they told me.

In other words, that’s probably how much love I’d received.

But there was one person.

Just one, who directed sharp hostility at me.

“Why’d you even bring something like _that_ home?”

A pointed voice. A cutting tone.

The person I remember felt like a finely honed blade.

They looked like Mom and Dad—but also didn’t.

They always looked at me like I was trash someone picked up off the street.

Maybe, just maybe… I’d known, even back then.

_I’m not their real daughter._

“**Koyuki** is Mom and Dad’s daughter. You know that, right?”

“…Yeah.”

I think the only reason I didn’t cry when I was told I wasn’t their real daughter was because I’d felt so loved by the two of them.

And that’s why I was curious.

Why did _that person_ look at me with such hatred?

I was so happy, just with the love I received from Mom and Dad. Why couldn’t they—

“Minori, don’t say that. Apologize to Koyuki—”

“Apologize? Apologize for what?! They’re dead because of her! And you bring _that_ thing into our house?! Unbelievable!”

A misunderstanding…? No, this was far beyond that.

It was pure hatred, boiling up from deep inside.

She was older than me, but still smaller than Mom and Dad. And yet, the emotions I felt from her were so dark, so intense…

I think I just trembled in Mom’s arms back then.

_That thing._

Maybe… maybe it was that single phrase that hurt me the most.

“…Minori.”

_SLAM._ The sound of the door shutting silenced Mom’s voice.

Minori, who’d run out, and the gloom she left behind—they shared the same darkness.

The two of them must’ve shared a pain that I couldn’t begin to understand.

The only one who didn’t know that pain… was me.

An intruder. An outsider.

That’s what I was.

“Um…”

“…”

“Um…!”

“…”

Honestly, I was just a kid, doing something dumb.

Everyone in the house seemed down because of me, so I thought—maybe I could do something to fix it.

Or maybe… I just wanted to prove something.

I wanted to show her how kind the people who adopted me were.

“Go away.”

“…Hik.”

Her voice, her actions, her presence—they all rejected me.

Like someone whose space had been invaded, she aimed an invisible blade at me.

_Get out. If you don’t, I’ll stab you, cut you to pieces, and rip you apart._

Her growl rang in my ears.

Yeah, someone like that—there’s no need to get close.

There’s no reason I have to reach out first, right?

“…I-I’ll just sit over here quietly.”

“…”

But… I didn’t leave.

I could’ve run out. Should’ve. But I didn’t.

It was my first and last act of courage.

I shuffled to a corner of her room and sat down.

Maybe she didn’t care, since I wasn’t in her way. She didn’t say anything after that.

“…”

“…”

An awkward coexistence.

Technically, I was the one invading her space and claiming a tiny corner of it. But if you added in Mom and Dad, calling it a “tense cohabitation” wasn’t exactly wrong.

But that was enough for me.

Just not being kicked out was enough to keep my heart from breaking.

—

After that, it became a routine.

I’d go to her room and sit quietly in my little corner.

Then I’d sneak glances at her as she went about her business.

It was like studying the behavior of a wild animal.

Looking back, I have no idea how I managed to keep doing that.

“…Are you drawing?”

“…”

“Y-You’re really good at it! Um, ah, uh…”

The coldness I got back was beyond icy—it was bone-chilling.

She ignored me completely, like I didn’t even exist.

The little courage I’d worked up crawled right back into its hiding place.

I just wanted to be closer.

I mean, we lived in the same house.

That makes us family, right?

“…I’m sorry.”

I had interrupted her while she was focused. That _was_ my fault.

She probably found even my apology annoying.

I sat back in my corner, on the verge of tears, and only then did I sense her mood soften slightly.

Maybe she _had_ been aware of me, after all.

‘…What should I call her?’

Mom and Dad had told me to call her “Minori unnie,” but the one time I did, she blew up at me.

She’d yelled so loudly that to this day, I still flinch at loud noises.

Anyway, the routine continued.

Day after day, I entered her room, sat quietly, and she did her thing.

The house stayed cold. Mom and Dad fought with her.

That day was supposed to be just like any other.

That is, it _should_ have been.

_Cough cough! Cough, cough—!_

She collapsed.

She’d caught a cold and was seriously ill.

The problem was that she’d just had a fight with Mom and Dad, and they were away from home at the time.

Not that it would’ve mattered. They rarely visited her room, even when they were home.

And she would never have told them she was sick.

_She must be really sick, huh…?_

I was used to being sick myself, but I never ignored someone else’s pain.

I was the only one who knew she was sick.

I could’ve called Mom and Dad, but… I felt like I wanted to do something, even if it was small.

Even if she’d always ignored and rejected me, I knew how much it meant to let someone into your personal space. I couldn’t turn my back on that.

“…Excuse me.”

I waddled back with a glass of water, soaked a towel, and gently placed it on her forehead.

I wasn’t strong enough to wring the towel well, so the water dripped. But I wiped it up carefully with a dry cloth.

I didn’t know how she’d gotten so sick, but for me, all that mattered was keeping that towel cool and replacing it when it got warm.

A foolish choice, maybe.

But not one I’d ever regret.

“…Mom…”

“…”

She muttered in her sleep.

She wasn’t calling for _my_ mom—she was calling for _hers._

I wondered what kind of person she had been.

I wiped her cheek gently, not sure if the wetness there was from the towel… or from tears.

I couldn’t accept that someone who had always been so harsh to me could cry. So I told myself it was just water.

But deep down, I already knew.

I knew how much pain she carried.

How she buried herself in her passions to forget the past.

And how, deep inside, she wanted to make up with Mom and Dad.

“Minori… unnie.”

“…”

It was less bravery and more recklessness.

If she hadn’t been sick—if she hadn’t been asleep—she would’ve screamed at me. Maybe even hit me.

But I was okay with it.

Because now, I finally wanted to try calling her that.

The name Mom had told me.

“Hehe… Minori unnie.”

It felt like doing something I shouldn’t… but I was also overwhelmed with relief and satisfaction.

Now that I think about it, that was the first time I ever called anyone “unnie.”

Just saying it gave me this warm, cozy feeling—like everything I’d endured until now had finally been rewarded.

Part of me even wished Minori unnie would stay sick a little longer.

When she was sick, she didn’t glare at me, yell at me, talk bad about Mom and Dad in front of me—and most of all, she didn’t respond when I called her “unnie.”

But back then, I didn’t know.

I didn’t realize that the moment I confirmed she had a cold, I should’ve stayed far away.

Because back then… I was weak, sure, but I wasn’t _that_ fragile.

—

“Koyuki! Koyuki!! Sweetheart, Koyuki!!!”

_Hack—cough, cough! Cough…!_

That night, I was rushed to the hospital in my parents’ arms after Minori unnie called them, having woken up thirsty in the middle of the night.

I think she said I had a high fever and even coughed up blood… but my memory was fuzzy. I was half-unconscious.

When I came to, I had an oxygen mask on my face and a huge needle in my arm.

But more than anything else… what really stuck with me was the sight of Minori unnie standing there, eyes red from crying, staring at me.

Funny, isn’t it?

Someone who’d been so mean to me was crying because of me—and it made me so happy.

_I’m really glad I took care of her._

Of course, there was a cost.

From that day on… I became someone who couldn’t live without an asthma inhaler.