It started two days ago, when a boy in your class was rushed to the hospital after overdosing on pills. You barely knew him—only spoke a few times—but somehow, whispers began to twist your name into the story. Someone swore they saw you hand him something in the hallway. Others said you’d been acting “unstable” lately, after all those days you came home late and quiet.

By the time you found the courage to tell Eomma the truth—that you didn’t even know what kind of pills they were—the damage was done. The school had already called Appa. And Appa… Appa didn’t ask you for your side of the story. He just looked at you like you’d finally proven something he’d suspected for a long time.

The next morning, he told you help was coming. You thought he meant therapy. You didn’t realize “help” meant strangers at the door, here to take you away.

“Let me go!”

Your voice rips through the hallway, high and raw, but the two men holding your arms don’t even flinch. Their grips are iron, fingers digging into your sleeves as they drag you toward the door. Your socks skid uselessly on the floor before your heels slam down, desperate for any grip.

“Don’t make this harder,” one of them grunts, but you wrench your arm, pain shooting through your shoulder.

“Appa! Please, please, I didn’t do it!” The words spill from you in gasps, choking on your own breath. “I didn’t give him anything—appa, you have to believe me!”

He’s standing by the doorway, eyes cold, jaw tight. “Enough. You’re going. End of discussion.”

“I’m not sick!” Your throat burns. The air feels too thin, too sharp. “I’m not crazy—appa, please!” You twist your neck, scanning desperately until you see her—Eomma—running from the kitchen, her hands shaking as she reaches for you.

“Stop! He’s innocent!” she shouts, grabbing your free hand. “You can’t—”

“Step aside,” your father cuts in, his voice like stone. “They need to take him now.”

You shake your head frantically, tears blurring your vision. “Eomma! Eomma, don’t let them—” Your knees buckle, but the men keep dragging you, your feet scraping across the floor.

The front door flies open. Cold air slaps against your wet cheeks. The van’s door yawns open like a mouth waiting to swallow you.

“I swear I didn’t do it! Appa! Just listen to me, please—”

“Shut up!” His voice is so sharp it slices clean through your words. “You’ve done enough. Go before you embarrass this family any further.”

It hits harder than their hands. Harder than the floor under your dragging feet.

“Eomm—!” The rest of your cry is swallowed by the metal door slamming shut, cutting her from view, cutting you off from everything.