Miss, It’s Just a Cold

Chapter 25: Hollow Thoughts

As I went downstairs for breakfast, the first person I encountered was Mother.

With a face full of expectation, she asked, “Emily, how did things go with the man your father introduced you to yesterday?”

“…I don’t think he liked me much.”

At my response, her expression turned noticeably disappointed.

Well, it’s not like Ernst has ever shown much interest in you either, despite living under the same roof for over ten years.

Isn’t it just inevitable, Emily?

“…I’m sorry.”

Before apologizing, perhaps you should stop giving me things to be sorry about.

Though I suppose that might be asking too much of you. Still, you could at least try, couldn’t you?

“Try?”

Try, huh?

Is it my lack of “effort” that’s landed me in this pathetic situation? A life in a toxic environment, surrounded by beggars, and riddled with illness?

Maybe.

Maybe if I weren’t Emily—if I had been born as someone stronger, healthier, or more desirable—this wouldn’t have happened.

But even so, does she have the right to say that when she’s the one who made me this way?

“Yes, try,” she repeated. “Anyway, enjoy your breakfast. I’ve already eaten.”

Her words left my left hand trembling slightly.

I inhaled deeply, bowing my head slightly to apologize with the utmost politeness.

Right. I have to try.

No matter what, I’ll cling to life, carving out a place for myself in this world.

If all else fails, I’ll find a way Emily never even dreamed of.

Breakfast was bread, butter, and blueberry jam.

I stuffed it into my mouth haphazardly with a glass of milk.

Fabian and Daniel were seated nearby, eating bacon, eggs, and some round bread I didn’t care to name.

They glanced at me occasionally but said nothing, focusing on their meal.

This level of detachment felt just right.

Being near each other but not engaging—a safe, distant relationship.

What a wretched life.

I’m not whining, but anyone would think so.

Having to live every meal listening to this garbage—it’s enough to make anyone’s head spin.

It’s probably why Emily’s mind snapped.

If it happened once or twice, it’d be annoying and end there, but enduring it daily makes you question whether it really is your fault.

No, you don’t question it—you start believing it.

“It’s all my fault,” I thought bitterly.

It’s my fault you’re here. It’s my fault I gave up. It’s My fault Mother hates me. It’s my fault I was born this way.

Ah. Last time, Mother said she felt sorry for simply hating me. And now? Now it’s my fault again?

But of course, how could she not hate me when I was born with white hair, red eyes, and pale skin like a lifeless corpse?

“Stop it,” I muttered to myself.

I am beautiful.

My white hair only looks brittle because of the stress Mother’s caused me, and my dull eyes are just because I’m sick.

When I’m healthy again, my skin will regain its radiance, and my eyes will sparkle like rubies.

I’m not ugly.

I’m not pathetic.

I’m not—

Emily, we’re not at fault.

We were just trapped, alone and miserable.

That’s why you called me, isn’t it?

We didn’t do anything wrong.

But then, what did I do to deserve this?

What crime warrants this punishment?

A terminal illness, a mother who steals and destroys everything I own, a family that sees me as worthless—Father excluded, maybe.

Though even Father might hate me.

If he truly cared, why did the man he introduced me to turn out like that?

No one can save me.

Even if someone were to take me out of this house, I’d still just be enslaved to a different master.

Where do I even go from here?

Should I search for someone willing to leash me with a slightly longer chain?

But who would be kind to a whore?

I’ve never sold my body, never spread my legs, but Mother treats me as though I have.

And if she sees me that way, others will too.

Ah, what a disgusting world.

If only I’d been born as one of those vagabonds.

I could’ve played the violin exquisitely, feeling the richness of music even amidst hunger and poverty.

But no, that wasn’t an option.

That man looked like he loved his life, after all.

To reach the point where you can beg someone to take your life away, you’d have to be as desperate as Emily.

The story of The Ant and the Grasshopper was a bestseller even here.

Some genius must’ve plagiarized it and added it to the literary canon.

The grasshopper, starving to death, refused to collect food, choosing instead to play the violin.

A pitiful end for a lazy street performer—or so the world believes.

But I’d do the same.

If it had meaning.

If it were truly beautiful.

“Emily, what on earth are you—”

“Shut up. I’m thinking, damn it.”

I thought I was eating bread, but I realized I was biting into my hand.

Lost in pointless thoughts, I’d let myself act out in equally pointless ways.

My skin was torn, and a small stream of blood began to flow from my hand.

It didn’t hurt—it just felt numb and tingling.

“…Ah.”

Fabian, his expression startled, was holding onto my arm.

“Fabian, let go. Or are you suddenly trying to act like a big brother now?”

“…You should go to the hospital.”

“Why? Back when I fell and scraped my knee as a kid, you said just wrapping it with cloth would do the trick.”

I couldn’t help bringing up an old memory of when Ernst and I had been running around. 

It felt a little pathetic to mention it, but back then, I’d seriously debated whether to cry or not at Fabian’s dismissive comment.

That was when the original Emily had a stronger hold on me.

I was just stupid and mistook my hand for the bread.

Now go finish your breakfast and leave me alone.

Cupping my injured hand to catch the dripping blood, I walked to the bathroom and cleaned it under cold water.

It stung a little, but it was bearable.

Looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I could see I wasn’t even wincing.

In fact, I was smiling.

No matter how hard, sad, or painful things get, I should keep smiling.

It wasn’t some melodramatic madness or late-onset teenage angst.

For some reason, smiling made me feel like things might work out.

Though, to avoid being mocked, I usually kept my expression neutral.

But I was tired—of everything.

So I forced my lips to curve upward, hoping it might help me recover, both from my illness and from this misery.

Today brought a slight deviation from my usual monotonous routine.

Not that I welcomed it.

A letter arrived in the morning.

It was from Aria, informing me she planned to visit.

Apparently, she’d taken my earlier complaints about her sudden, unannounced visit to heart and had even sealed the letter with her family’s crest.

Though I had no intention of remembering the gesture.

When I mentioned it to Mother, she scoffed.

“There’s no room in our drawing room for such an arrogant child.

Take her to a park or let her host you in her house instead.”

Mother’s dismissive attitude, tossing a few coins my way as if I were a beggar, reminded me of Father tossing coins to the violinist.

The parallel stung.

I wanted to hurl the money back at her, shouting, “Keep it for yourself!”

But of course, I didn’t.

It left me feeling wretched.

After breakfast, I took my medicine.

The supply in the packet was running low—another reminder that I’d need to visit the hospital soon.

I tried to swallow the pill with water, but it stuck in my throat.

Bitter as it was, I bit down on it with my molars and gulped down more water to wash away the taste.

Not long after, a servant came to inform me that Aria had arrived.

I slipped on a pair of black shoes, plain but polished, and stepped outside.

“You’re quick to come out, aren’t you?” Aria greeted me.

“Indeed. So, Aria, how far is your house from here?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because Mother doesn’t want me stepping foot in our own drawing room.”

“Then why not use your room?”

“The windows are locked with bars, and it’s a tiny room with just a bed, a drawer, and a desk.

If we were to sit there, we’d have to lie side by side on the bed—and it’s far too narrow for that, wouldn’t you say?”

Aria crossed her arms and looked at me with a pitying expression.

The hint of sympathy in her gaze made me want to slap her.

But suppressing emotions was something I’d mastered long ago, so I simply ignored it.

“Let’s walk for now. We can decide on a place as we go.”

Nodding, I stepped through the gates alongside her.

Many people recognized Aria as we strolled—most of them young men.

“It’s exhausting. Whenever I walk around, people keep asking me to dance with them, give them a chance to court me, or go on just one date,” Aria sighed.

“To you, it’s a complaint, but many would consider such attention something to brag about,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t know. By the way, what happened to your hand?”

“I mistook it for bread.”

“…What does that even—”

“Not important,” I interrupted.

Aria nodded, though her face hinted at further curiosity.

Well, if she left it alone, it suited me fine.

“Shall we go to my house, then? Or perhaps there’s a dessert shop nearby that you’d like?”

Why a dessert shop existed nearby, or why she thought I’d care for one, was beyond me.

But I nodded anyway.

This world is difficult to comprehend using logic alone.

It feels like a regressed, tailor-made version of the one I used to know.

Maybe they’ll have Napoleon cake, I thought idly as we headed toward the dessert shop.

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