Morning light isn't a polite guest. It entered without knocking, directly stabbing from behind my eyelids.

  I raised my hand to cover my face, but my arm just trembled lazily and fell back down. It took several seconds before consciousness truly landed.

  Something's wrong.

  "Ugh..." I forced myself to sit up.

  The world immediately spun. Walls, closet, window, everything spinning like a carousel that lost control. My stomach lifted along with it.

  My head fell back onto the pillow with a muffled thud. Alright. We'll try again later.

  A very relative later.

  I let my head sink. My breath is hot. I swallowed, and immediately regretted it.

  This isn't ordinary thirst. It feels like my throat walls are being sandpapered.

  My head throbbed gently but consistently.

  I stared at the bedroom ceiling with eyes still half-closed.

  So this is what being sick is.

  Actually, this could've been predicted.

  More than a month of all-nighters, irregular sleep, eating often late because too absorbed in reading. This body's still small.

  In my old life, I could pull all-nighters two nights in a row and at most just get a headache for a day. This body doesn't know how to do that.

  And apparently it chose today to tell me.

  I don't know how long I've been staring at that ceiling. Quite a while, it seems.

  Until...

  Tok tok tok.

  A knock sounded from outside the room.

  "Sera, wake up. It's morning."

  Mom's voice, light as usual.

  I opened my mouth, took a breath, tried to answer.

  No sound. Just a short exhale came out. My throat felt stiff, like it didn't want to cooperate.

  I tried again.

  "M... ma..."

  My voice cracked and hoarse. So thin. Even sounded strange to my own ears.

  I swallowed, tried again.

  "M... cough..."

  A small cough escaped.

  "Cough."

  Mom's tone changed.

  The door handle immediately turned.

  The bedroom door opened.

  Mom's steps came in. The aroma of morning cooking slipped in too. Usually calming, but now it feels too sharp.

  "Sera, dear..."

  Her sentence cut off when she saw me on the bed.

  Her steps stopped beside the bed.

  "Sera?"

  Her tone changed. Still gentle, but there's tension that can't be hidden.

  I opened my eyes. Her face looked a bit blurry, like seen through fogged glass. But the wrinkles on her forehead were clear.

  Her hand touched my forehead. Either her hand's cold or my body's too hot.

  She felt my cheek, down to my neck, then back to my forehead, making sure.

  "So hot!" Her voice rose slightly, panic being held back.

  "Ma..." My voice hoarse. "Sorry..."

  She didn't answer right away. Her eyes traced my face quickly. Her lower lip trembled slightly, a sign I recognized. She's holding something back.

  "How long has it been?" she asked, trying to stay calm.

  I wanted to answer, but suddenly my throat itched.

  "Uh... kh... kh..."

  A small cough came out first. Dry and painful.

  I covered my mouth with my hand, trying to hold it back, but it just triggered the next one.

  "Haah... Morning."

  My chest felt like it was vibrating.

  "Ssst... easy..."

  Her hand moved to my back, rubbing slowly.

  I tried to take a deep breath. But my chest still hurt.

  Her hand still on my forehead.

  "What does Sera feel?"

  "Head... dizzy..." I swallowed. Itchy. "Throat hurts."

  She nodded slowly, but her gaze couldn't lie.

  She pulled the blanket tighter to my chest. Her movements quick, careful, as if I'm something fragile.

  Then she stood and walked to the door.

  As soon as her steps left the room, the tone was different. Not the light steps that came in earlier. These are quick steps.

  The steps of a woman about to declare war.

  "HONEY! SERA HAS A HIGH FEVER!" Her voice echoed from outside.

  Even though my head was throbbing, I could hear the tremor at the end of her sentence.

  Less than a minute later, I heard thud, thud, thud. Heavy footsteps.

  Dad.

  The already open door was pushed slightly wider. Dad's face appeared in the doorway. Hair a bit messy, top shirt button not fastened yet.

  His eyes immediately searched for my bed, and in two long steps he was already beside me.

  His hands are big. But when touching my face, his touch felt cold and careful. The carefulness of someone used to holding heavy objects, but now holding something far more precious.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "The fever's very high." His voice calmer than Mom's. "We have to..."

  "THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOU!" Mom's shout cut off Dad's sentence.

  I closed my eyes briefly. There's something funny and sad at the same time when your parents fight at the side of your bed while you don't even have the energy to sit up.

  The room atmosphere changed in an instant. From bedroom to courtroom.

  Dad is the defendant. Mom is the prosecutor. And me? I'm exhibit A.

  Dad didn't fight back. Didn't yell back.

  His hand stayed on my forehead, and for a moment we were both silent. Me with eyes half-closed, him with a face experienced in facing storms.

  I couldn't see clearly, but I didn't need to see to know what was happening.

  Mom's voice is usually like porcelain plates clinking, but now her voice is sharp like broken glass being stepped on.

  So cold I felt the temperature in this room dropped several degrees.

  "I already told you not to give her heavy books like that! I already told you!"

  "Honey... not in front of..."

  "Does she not know?" Mom entered the room. Her steps quick.

  I opened my eyes slightly, enough to see her standing with hands on hips. Her face red.

  "Sera, Mama's not mad at you, okay. You just rest."

  I understand.

  I hurriedly closed my eyes.

  Her voice softened when talking to me, but as soon as her eyes shifted to Dad, that cold tone returned.

  "We'll talk outside."

  "Honey..."

  "Come on. Why do you look scared?"

  Dad let out a long sigh. The sigh of someone who already knows when to stop fighting.

  "Papa's going out first, kiddo. Rest properly."

  Ah. That was clearly a soldier's breath before battle.

  Good luck coming back, Dad.

  Unfortunately, I'm too weak to hold a farewell ceremony.

  The door closed quietly.

  And in my imagination, Dad's now walking to the living room with heavy steps. War music plays in the background.

  His enemy? Mom.

  Who's most likely standing with arms folded. Absolute defensive position. Final level sharp gaze.

  Dad must try diplomacy strategy first.

  "She only read a little..."

  Wrong. That's a weak opening. Even feverish me can feel defeat from here.

  Mom will pull out the trump card.

  "She's four years old."

  Checkmate.

  Four years old is too strong a card in any debate.

  I stared at the ceiling with a concerned expression. Dad is indeed brave. But history proves, no one truly wins against Mom when she's already using her signature weapon, which is my age.

  If Dad comes back later with a calm face but empty eyes, that means negotiation failed. And the bookshelf will likely be relocated to a place unreachable by humans one meter tall.

  I pulled the blanket up to my nose. Dad, hang in there. My literary fate is on your shoulders.

  Don't give up. Think of your child who still wants to read. Think of the future. Think of...

  My head throbbed again. Hard this time.

  Alright. I give up first.

  鈥? 鈥? 鈥?

  Half an hour later

  Footsteps started approaching the room again. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.

  If you're not visible, you're not involved.

  The door opened slowly.

  I heard them both enter. I didn't open my eyes, but my ears followed every sound. Slow movements around me.

  Books were taken.

  My brown notebook, already full of my handwriting, was also taken away.

  Not that one...

  My heart sank. That's not just a book. In there are Sea Fruit analyses, theories about Allain, and my thought maps.

  There was a very childish impulsive urge in my chest to suddenly get up, snatch that book, and hide it under the pillow. I wanted to shout, 'Sera's! Don't take it!' like a toddler whose toy was taken.

  My hand under the blanket clenched tight until trembling, trying to hold back the instinct to move.

  I could only peek through the gap of thin eyelashes. Watching Dad's hand grip that brown book, my hard work's result, and carry it away from my reach.

  It felt like watching half my soul being carried out of the room.

  But somehow, I felt relieved knowing that book was in my dad's hands.

  My tears weren't for the hot body. But for the papers moving away, and my fingers that could only grip the sheets.

  I felt naked without that book.

  Mom's voice whispered, "Pull the blanket up a bit. Cold air."

  "Okay." Dad's voice also whispered.

  The blanket was pulled slowly, covering my shoulder. Dad's hand stopped briefly on my shoulder, like wanting to say something but held back.

  Maybe wanted to say 'Forgive Papa, kiddo. Papa tried.'

  Then their footsteps moved away. The door closed quietly.

  As soon as their footsteps' sound disappeared, I opened my eyes.

  The bedroom ceiling was still the same. But my room felt emptier now.

  That bookshelf in the corner, which was usually full of several books, now only had a few toys I rarely touched.

  Those toys stared at me. Stared with victorious looks.

  'Finally, our turn,' they said. 'You've not played with us enough. Now it's time for us to shine.'

  Stupid toys. No empathy.

  I sighed, as best I could with a throat still sore.

  Just enjoy your time. Because once I recover, I'll go back to reading.

  But for now... I have to surrender.

  And somehow, in the middle of that surrender, what appeared wasn't annoyance. What appeared was actually something quieter.

  At least, they didn't fight in front of me. At least, they tried to protect me from their argument.

  It's complicated too, being a parent. You have to be angry at your partner, but can't in front of the child. You have to discipline your child, but still have to care for them with full love.

  Like walking on a very thin rope while carrying two precious objects.

  I closed my eyes again.

  This body isn't interested in reflection for too long.

  I don't know how long I lay like that. Maybe slept briefly. Maybe not.

  The medicine came not long after that.

  Red syrup with grape flavor too sweet. A glass of warm water. A thermometer I had to hold in my armpit until it beeped.

  I did it all without protest.

  In my old life, I hated drinking syrup medicine most. The sweetness always felt fake and left a strange coating on the tongue. But now I don't have energy to be fussy.

  Besides, this is partly my own fault.

  "Finish it slowly."

  Mom sat at the edge of the bed. Her hand still holding the glass until I really gripped it.

  I drank slowly. Deliberately slow. If I throw up now, my reputation will drop one more level.

  "Sera."

  "Yes?"

  "Do you know why Mama's angry?"

  "Because I stayed up late."

  Mom shook her head slowly. "That's just a small part."

  Her hand brushed hair from my forehead. Her fingers cold, contrasting with my skin's heat. Her fingers stayed there, pushing aside strands that fell again.

  "You think Mama doesn't know?"

  I stayed silent.

  "Every night your room light is still on. You think Mama doesn't check?"

  Of course she knows. Parents always know.

  They just wait for confession, as if that honesty has to grow by itself like baby teeth.

  "Mama deliberately stayed quiet," she continued in a low voice. "Mama thought... maybe you'd tell on your own."

  That sentence was heavier than being scolded.

  I swallowed. My throat hurt.

  "I just... didn't want to be scolded."

  She took a breath. "Sera, if you're afraid of being scolded and stay quiet, when will you tell?"

  I stared at the glass in my hand. My fingertips turned it slowly.

  "I just wanted to quickly get smart like Dad," I said quietly.

  Forgive me, Dad. Your name's being used as a shield.

  "If I'm slow, I'll fall behind."

  Only then did her hand truly stop.

  "Fall behind from whom?"

  I opened my mouth. Then closed it again.

  From everyone? Or from time?

  I don't know either.

  "No one's chasing you, Sera," she said in a low voice. "You're four years old."

  That sentence again.

  "I know," I mumbled. "But it doesn't feel like that."

  "Look at Mama."

  Her hand dropped from my hair, then slowly held my cheek, lifting my face until I looked at her eyes.

  "Whatever you're chasing, don't let your body pay first."

  Her voice wasn't loud. But there was something cracking there.

  And that made my chest feel more uncomfortable than the fever.

  I twisted the edge of the blanket in my finger.

  "If it's just because you're smart, Mama would be proud instead." She took a breath. "This is because Mama's scared."

  Scared?

  That one word was far sharper.

  "Mama already lost someone because of something like this."

  Silence.

  Her grip on my cheek weakened. Her hand dropped slowly onto the blanket, staying close, as if making sure I'm really there.

  My chest felt tighter than before.

  "Lost...?" I asked quietly.

  She didn't answer right away.

  "You don't need to know now," she finally said. "What you need to know is just one thing. Mama doesn't want that to happen again."

  Happen again?

  Those words hung in the air. Her hand stayed on the blanket, still.

  "You have to care more about your own body," she continued. "Being smart is useless if you're not healthy."

  I turned my face away. My eyes felt hot.

  "Sorry, Ma."

  She exhaled a long breath. Not angry, but tired of holding back.

  Her hand rose again, touching my hair once, twice, lighter than before.

  "For now," she finally said, her tone returning to stable, "Mama will keep the books first, okay."

  I looked up quickly.

  The corner of her lips lifted thinly. "That look won't work."

  I tried to level it up. A bit more pitiful. A bit more dramatic.

  She almost laughed. "Still won't work."

  The tone in the room changed a bit. Not as light as earlier. But not as tense as before.

  She got up from the edge of the bed, then tidied my blanket before truly standing.

  "Later when you're better. Body strong, sleep enough, eat regularly, then you can again."

  She looked at me straight.

  "With rules. Not late at night. Understand?"

  I calculated quickly in my head. One hour can still be optimized. As long as it's efficient. As long as I don't get caught.

  "...Understand," I mumbled.

  "Really understand?"

  I looked at her briefly. Then nodded.

  Mom didn't say anything more. She just stroked my hair once before standing and leaving, closing the door quietly behind her.

  The room returned to silence.

  Three days passed.

  Three days. 72 hours. 4,320 minutes. And every minute felt like forever.

  I lay weak on the bed. Mom checked on me every few hours. Dad came with cold compresses that were changed every time they got warm.

  And me? I could only stare at the bedroom ceiling while thinking how stupid I was. My ambition almost killed my own new body.

  Truly ironic.

  But what's more surprising to me is... this is the first time I've been sick since being born in this world. Four years. Never had a fever, never had serious cough, even common flu never visited.

  Is my body that strong? Or have I just never pushed it to its limits like now?

  I don't know.

  What I know now is: I have to stop torturing myself.

  I don't want my parents to be sad.