It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.

Episode 3

(A Fool's Hope)

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"I… I wanted to apologize."

The moment those words left her mouth, my mind went blank. Of all things I thought could happen today, hearing an apology from Sera was never one of them.

On the way here, I kept asking myself over and over again—why? Why did I want to see her? Why did I agree to this? No matter how much I tried to understand it, I couldn't find the answer. I thought maybe it was just out of habit, or some lingering obligation.

But now… I think I know. Deep down, I must have been clinging to the smallest thread of hope. I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to fix things. For once… for the last time… I wanted to give us a final chance to fix whatever was left.

An apology, though? I never expected that. Never.

Maybe it was good that I came. But now what? What do I do? What do I say? It feels like something should shift, but nothing does. It's almost laughable to think of changing her contact name or giving her a cute nickname like people do with family, like we were ever that close.

I felt something stir inside me—some distant, fragile emotion I couldn't name. Was it joy? Relief? It didn't feel real. It felt like trying to hold on to a memory that's already slipping away. Could I trust this? Could I trust her?

But then, predictably, Sera shattered the illusion.

"I… I heard I said something silly when I was drunk at the last family gathering. I'm really sorry if it upset you. You know how I am after a few drinks—I, I wasn't thinking clearly."

The words hit me like ice water on bare skin, numbing every inch of my body.

Something… Silly?

My chest tightened, and bile rose in my throat. Even now, the memory of that night clung to me like a poison I couldn't purge. When I thought about it—really thought about it—I felt like tearing myself apart, like I could claw at my own skin just to escape the suffocating weight of it. Every word, every glance, every wound from that night haunted me, gnawing at my mind like a parasite.

And she calls it 'silly'?

"To be honest, I don't remember much."

Of course, you don't. You never do. You drink, you forget, and you move on. But just because you don't remember doesn't mean I can forget. Doesn't mean it didn't happen. Doesn't mean it didn't wreck me.

"I'm sure I never meant it the way you took it. Maybe— Maybe you misunderstood?"

"...Misunderstood?"

The word barely escaped me, my voice small and trembling.

How could she even suggest I misunderstood when she doesn't even remember? But then again, she never does. She never has to.

I should've known better. I shouldn't be here. Yet, here I am, listening to her try to explain it away. What kind of person does that make me? Still holding onto something I should've let go of years ago. I hate that part of me—the part that cares, the part that still feels it.

It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.

But still… Still… Please don't tell me I misunderstood—not your words, not the way people stared, watching you tear me apart. Not the ones who did nothing. Not the ones who cheered you on.

The memories stick with me. Always.

How can you say it was just a misunderstanding?

I felt it tightening around me—the suffocating coldness, the familiar ache of trying to breathe when everything feels so impossibly heavy. I wish I could shake it off. I wish I didn't feel this.

"Ah… Yes, so, I-I was just drunk, it wasn't really me talking. You know how I get when I've had a few too many."

"Ah… Yes… I know that…"

I know exactly how you get. I've known for years.

"Anyway, I hope you can forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you. Not really."

Her voice sounded sincere, and somehow, that made everything worse. If she's genuinely sorry without even understanding what she did… if she can brush it off like I misunderstood everything, then what does that make me? The idiot still stuck in the past? The fool clinging to things that don't matter, holding onto scars that no one else even remembers?

Rumble*

The thunder cracked outside, sharp and distant, pulling my gaze to the window. For a second, I just stared, my mind blank. Then, finally, I spoke. "Alright…"

"H-Huh?"

Sera's eyes widened, confused.

"... I forgive you."

I met her eyes, finally. And the look on her face—pure, stupid relief—made something twist inside me. It felt wrong. It felt sick. Like someone had reached inside my chest and was slowly, methodically, tearing me apart.

"...I-... That– Thank–"

I could hear her struggling to speak, but I was too tired. Too drained to listen anymore.

"You've said what you needed, right? There's nothing else. So… I'll just go."

I pushed my chair back, ready to leave, but before I could, her hand shot out, gripping mine. Desperate. Her eyes pleading with me in a way I didn't want to see.

"W-Wait, sister! You can't go yet!"

"..."

Cecilia's eyes widened, caught off guard by Seraphine's desperate plea. Her grip was too tight, too desperate.

Why? Why are you looking at me like that?

"What more is there to say?"

Cecilia's voice emerged as a hollow whisper, her gaze heavy with exhaustion. She felt like a ghost in her own skin, detached from this moment and from herself. Her eyes searched Seraphine's face, but all she saw was a frantic desperation she didn't have the strength to confront.

"That… I have something to say…"

Seraphine's voice wavered, her eyes frantic, like she was clinging to Cecilia for something she couldn't name.

Cecilia frowned, something bitter curling in her chest as she took in her sister's panicked face. A wave of disgust rolled through her—at herself. Why do I even care? Why do I always have to notice? To feel? I just want to get out of here. I just want to forget.

But instead, I'm stuck. Trapped in this mess of emotions that aren't even mine to deal with.

"Haa~"

Cecilia let out a heavy sigh, her chest tight, her breath shaky. She looked up at the ceiling, her vision blurring, and she blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. So many emotions churned inside her, rising, suffocating her from the inside out. She wanted to scream, to disappear, to be free of this endless loop of guilt and pain.

After what felt like an eternity, she sank back into the chair, her movements slow, heavy. She met Seraphine's gaze, her eyes raw and tired.

"Fine. Say what you need to say."

Cecilia's tone was steady, her expression unnervingly calm, like a still lake just before the storm breaks.

"Th-That… I…"

Seraphine's words faltered as she stared at her lap, her voice barely a whisper.

"..."

"I…"

"..."

"I have a favor to ask you."

The words made Cecilia's brow furrow slightly.

"Hah!"

A harsh, mirthless laugh escaped her, tainted with bitterness. Seraphine's shoulders tensed at the sound.

"You want to ask me for a favor? From me?"

What kind of favor could you possibly need from me? You, who've always been the ONLY daughter, the one bathed in your parents' endless affection, who had every wish fulfilled before you even asked.

"I…"

Seraphine's hands tightened into fists, her frustration palpable. She bit her lip, eyes flaring with a mix of desperation and resolve.

"Please, sister! You, only you can help me this time!"

"Help you with what exactly? What is there that your parents can't provide?"

The question cut through the air, raw and merciless. Seraphine's eyes flashed with shock. Her voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the tension. "You don't understand."

"You don't know anything. Nothing!"

Seraphine's voice grew louder, each word spilling out with a mix of anger and desperation. "Mom and Dad will help me, you say? Hah. They're the ones who pushed me into this mess!"

"How could they do this to me? How could they ignore my opinion and force me into this situation? Why should I sacrifice everything for them?"

Her voice trembled, cracking under the weight of her emotions. The unevenness of her breathing made her rage all the more evident.

"I…"

Seraphine's voice faltered, eyes brimming with tears that she could no longer hold back.

"I really can't go on."

The sound of her sobs filled the silence, raw and unfiltered.

"..."

Cecilia watched, numb, feeling the cold emptiness within her expand. The sight of Seraphine—normally so proud and detached—breaking down so completely was unsettling. The image of her, unraveling in such a manner, felt almost alien.

Does that mean she should offer comfort? Could she muster any sympathy for someone who seemed to have always been given everything? Was she, who had always felt like an outsider in her own life, even capable of understanding this desperate plea?

Cecilia didn't know.