I have been adopted eight times.

To be precise, I gained a family eight times and was abandoned eight times.

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.

And yet, I was abandoned again.

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

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

So at some 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.

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

Especially the moment someone raised their hand.

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

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

Even though nothing had happened.

I had become too used to it.

I even walked on eggshells when eating. There were more days when I survived on a single triangle kimbap rather than three meals a day. 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 just become a nuisance if I said I wanted something.

So I didn't want anything.

Not things I liked, nor things I hated.

Not things I wanted to have, nor 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, 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.

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.

The cold chill of the floor felt like living tentacles, crawling up my buttocks, up my legs, through my whole body, and slowly rising to the top of my head.

I didn't even know where to go.