I have been adopted eight times.

To be precise, I gained a family eight times, only to be abandoned again.

At first, I thought it was my fault. Because I said the wrong thing, because I was too quiet, or because I cried too much.

So I thought I had to do better when I met the next family. I smiled when told to smile, and I didn't say no even when I hated something. I endured hunger and said I was fine even when I was in pain.

Yet, I was abandoned again.

It was only after the same thing happened several times that I realized.

Being loved wasn't something I could obtain through effort.

So, from a certain point, I gave up on expecting anything at all.

Nothing changed even after I entered my current home. My father was drunk most days, and my mother treated me as if my very existence was a nuisance.

Whenever someone raised their voice in the house, I held my breath. If a door slammed or footsteps drew near, my body would tense up for no reason.

Especially the moment someone raised their hand.

I would curl my body before I even had time to think.

I wrapped my arms around my head and squeezed my eyes shut.

Even when nothing actually happened.

I became too used to it.

I even walked on eggshells when eating. More often than not, I survived the day on a single triangle kimbap rather than three meals. I was used to being hungry. I thought it would be okay once I got used to it.

My clothes were always the same.

A single white T-shirt and black long pants.

I never even thought about asking for new clothes. I felt like I would become a nuisance if I said I wanted something.

So I didn't want anything.

Not things I liked, not things I hated.

Not things I wanted to have, not places I wanted to go.

Even if I wanted them, I couldn't have them anyway.

I thought if I lived like that, eventually I wouldn't feel anything.

But strangely, a part of it still remained in a corner of my heart.

---

The thought that I wish someone wouldn't abandon me.

The thought that I wish there was someone who would be on my side for no reason at all.

But I considered even having such thoughts a luxury.

Then, one rainy evening.

I was kicked out of the house once again.

I sat slumped on the familiar hallway floor and didn't move for a long time.

The home that I should have felt was cozy was nowhere to be found; instead, I felt that being kicked out was actually somewhat more comfortable.

I felt the cold chill of the floor slowly climbing up from my buttocks, through my legs, through my entire body to the top of my head like living tentacles.

I didn't even know where to go.