My skull is splitting open.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like.
I clutch my head in both hands, fingers tangled in my hair like they can somehow squeeze the pain out. But it doesn’t leave. It never does—not when this happens.

It’s like someone packed my brain with a thousand cotton balls and then hurled it down an endless flight of stairs. A dizzying, blurry, tumbling sensation that presses against the inside of my forehead like something’s about to crawl out. It’s not just pain—it’s a signal. A warning.

Something’s coming.

I don’t know how I know. I just do. I always know.

I blink through the haze and fix my eyes on the clock, even though every second feels like a knife in my temple.
12:48 a.m.

My throat tightens.
She said she’d be back by eleven.
She’s never this late.

I should panic.
I should call someone.
I should do something.

But I don’t.

I’ve learned how to wait.
My mom—she’s not the kind of person who lives life on schedule. Things happen. She gets held up. A coworker needs help. A late shift runs longer than it’s supposed to. She’s the kind of person who always says yes when people ask too much of her.

So I breathe. I convince myself it’s okay. That she’s just taking care of something.

She always tells me I’m the best thing in her life.
Every single day.
Even on the worst days, she says it like a promise she’s making to both of us.

We don’t have a lot. Not money, not time. Definitely not peace. No shiny diploma on the wall. No dad waiting in the living room with a mug of coffee. Just us. Me and her.

But she tells me I’m the reason she keeps going.
She says she’s lucky to have me.

I press the side of my head against the wall. It’s cool and smooth and makes the pounding a little less sharp, like I can bury the pressure in the plaster.

Still, the ache stays. It always does—right before something happens.

I close my eyes.
And try not to imagine what it is this time.

I run my fingers through my long black hair, dragging them through the tangles like I’m trying to comb the pain out. It doesn’t help. If anything, it only makes the pounding in my skull sharpen—like someone’s tightening a screw right behind my eyes.

I shove myself off the bed like a launched rocket, hoping the motion will somehow snap me out of it. Like maybe if I move fast enough, I can outrun whatever this is. I stagger to my feet and head toward the kitchen. Cold. I need something cold. Cold always helps. Numbs it. Grounds me.

But halfway through the doorway, I stopped.

It hits me like a collapsing wave.

My legs buckle slightly, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the doorframe with both hands. My knuckles turn white as I grip the wood like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling into some dark void.

This pain—this time—it’s worse.

It’s not just in my head. It’s behind it. Inside it. Like claws scraping against the inside of my skull, like something is trying to dig its way out. Every heartbeat is a hammer. My vision blurs at the edges, the world warping like a camera lens being twisted out of focus.

I can’t see straight. I can’t think. I can’t even breathe right.
It’s like my brain is short-circuiting, screaming in a language I don’t understand.

But I keep going.

Because that’s what I always do.

I push away from the doorframe, half-stumbling, half-floating down the hallway to the kitchen. The fridge light stabs at my eyes when I open it, and I squint through the glare, grabbing the first ice pack I see in the freezer.

Back in my room, I collapse onto the bed and press it to my forehead.

The cold bites my skin, and I wince, but I force myself to hold it there.

The pain doesn't ease.

It presses in deeper, sharper, louder—worse than every other time. Worse than anything I’ve felt before.

Then the phone rings.

A sharp, shrill sound that cuts through the air like a blade. It jars me, pulls me up from my haze of pain. I stretch up, the ice pack slipping off my forehead and onto the floor. My head protests the motion like I’ve just stood up on a ship in a storm. Everything spins. Everything hurts.

I fumble with the phone and finally bring it to my ear.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice replies—calm, official, too measured for this hour.
“Hello, is this Cho Miyeon?”

My stomach curls. “Yes, it’s me. What’s going on?”

There’s a pause. A thick, heavy pause. Not the kind where someone forgets what to say. The kind where someone knows what they’re about to say is going to break something. Someone.

My head throbs—sharp, hot flashes behind my eyes. I wince, the pain drilling deeper like it’s trying to reach the center of me. I need him to talk.

“Are you gonna tell me or not?”

That’s when I hear them.

Sirens.

Faint, but real. Police sirens. Somewhere on his end of the call.

“Why are you with the police?” I ask, already knowing the answer won’t be good.

He speaks again, more mechanical this time. Like he’s reading from a script he’s recited too many times. “I’m part of the police in town. Agent Raffery. I would like to inform you of an inconvenience—your mother… passed away.”

I freeze.

“What?” The word escapes my mouth like it doesn’t belong to me.

“Your mother passed away,” he repeats, softer this time.

I stare straight ahead. I don’t see anything. I don’t even blink. The pain in my head feels like it’s reached its peak, like something inside of me is screaming and clawing but has no voice.

“No, I heard you the first time.” My voice shakes. “I mean… what? Why? How?”
I’m not even sure what I’m asking. I don’t know what I want from him—answers, maybe. Or for it to be a mistake. Or a bad prank. Or a lie.

But it’s not.

Because that kind of silence? The kind that comes after something irreversible?

You don’t fake that.

The line stays quiet for a second, maybe two. Then Agent Raffery finally speaks again, but it’s all business. All distances.
“There was a car accident. A sedan collided with a barrier. No one else was involved. The vehicle was mostly intact… but the driver—your mother—didn’t survive. We believe it was instant.”

“No, no, no—she said she’d be back by midnight. She promised. She promised.”

“I understand this is difficult to process—”

“You don’t understand,” I snapped. My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “You don’t even know her.”

I press my hand against my chest, like that might keep my ribs from caving in.

“She wasn’t supposed to die. Not like that. Not after everything she went through.”

He exhales softly. “I know this is overwhelming. If you need, we can send someone to—”

“No,” I whisper. “No. Just… I need to call someone. I need to think. I can’t—I can’t—”

I hang up before he finishes. The phone drops from my hand and lands on the carpet with a soft thud.

And I sit there. Just breathing. Just breaking.

My mom is dead.

My mom.

Gone.

Forever.

It feels like my brain can’t keep up with the words, like my body’s still waiting for her key in the door. For her voice calling, “Miyeon, I brought you shrimp crackers!” or one of her cheap plastic hair clips breaking in the bathroom or the sound of her slipper-shuffle across the tile.

But she’s never coming back. Not this time. Not ever.

I slide off the bed and collapse onto the floor, knees curling into my chest. My arms wrap tight around myself like I can still feel her hug if I squeeze hard enough.

“She never had anything good,” I mutter, and then louder, “She never got anything good!”

Not a college degree. Not a fancy job. Not a husband who stayed. Not even a day off.

She gave everything to me. And now—now she doesn’t even get a tomorrow.

Tears stream down my face before I realize I’m crying.

She told me I was her best thing. That I was the one thing she didn’t regret.

And now all I can think is—what if she regretted not more? What if she died tired and alone and just… done?

I bury my face into my arms and scream, muffled and messy and loud. The grief is like drowning, but instead of water it’s every memory, every word, every time I brushed her off or said, “Yeah, whatever, Mom.”

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

My sadness curdled into rage so fast I could taste it in my throat—thick and bitter, like swallowed battery acid. I stood up so fast the floor groaned under me, fists clenched and nails digging into my palms like I could anchor myself with pain.

I stormed through the hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights. Everything was shadows, and that felt right.
When the garage door didn’t open, I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask. I kicked it.

Once. Twice. Until the thing jutted open with a whine and a stubborn crack. I didn’t care. Let it break. Everything else already had.

There it was.

Her car.

The one she used to drive me to school, to pick up ramen at 11PM, to scream-sing ballads with the windows down like the whole world was ours.
Now it looked like a ghost of itself. A few dents, a scrape across the front like someone tried to claw their way out.

But it still ran.

And so did I.

I yanked the door open and threw myself into the seat like it might disappear if I hesitated. I slammed it shut, turned the key with shaking fingers, and floored it out the driveway like I was chasing something. Or maybe running from everything.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I didn’t care.

Just—not here.

Anywhere but this house that still smelled like her.
Anywhere but this room where her shoes still sat by the door.
Anywhere but this life I suddenly didn’t recognize.

My hair was tangled from crying and sweating and maybe screaming—I don’t even know—but I shoved it back like that could keep me together.

Traffic. Red lights. Brake lights.

I didn’t wait.

I cut across three lanes, tires screeching, windows fogged from my breath.

Someone honked. Someone cursed.

I didn’t care.

I kept driving. Into the dark. Into the unknown.
Because if I stopped, I might remember she’s not coming home.
And I couldn’t survive that. Not yet.