The sky above Seoul was a soft grey canvas dusted with snow. Lights flickered on in the alleyways below, and a quiet hush fell over the city as evening stretched its arms. Jessie sat on the windowsill of her tiny apartment, her forehead pressed to the cold glass, eyes tracing the snowflakes that danced through the wind.

It was her only moment of peace.

At twenty-three, Jessie had finally carved a sliver of freedom for herself. Working as a graphic designer at a mid-sized firm in the heart of the city, her days were filled with color, shapes, and deadlines. But the nights—God, the nights—were still haunted by screams that belonged to a past not yet buried.

Born in a small town near Daegu, Jessie was never allowed to dream. Her parents ruled the house with iron voices and sharp hands. Her mother’s words were knives dressed in the fabric of duty. Her father’s silence was always followed by rage. Joy was forbidden. Smiles were rare. And leaving the house for anything other than school or chores was considered rebellion.

When Jessie was fifteen, she had asked to join a school trip. Her mother slapped her across the face before the question even finished forming. That night, her father came home early. The belt was waiting.

But she didn’t cry. She learned not to.

Still, deep inside her, something soft refused to die.

Years passed. Jessie studied hard, got a scholarship, and somehow escaped to Seoul under the pretense of college. She didn’t tell her parents where she worked now. She lied about the city. She lied about being happy. In some way, it was the only thing keeping her sane.

Until today.

She clutched her phone, staring at the message from her best friend, Vanessa.

“My birthday party’s this Saturday! Come, Jessie. Just once, for yourself. Please?”

Jessie’s heart fluttered at the thought. She had never gone to a party. Never worn a dress that shimmered. Never let herself be seen, truly seen.

She dialed home that evening, thinking—just maybe—they’d understand.

“Umma…” Her voice trembled. “Can I go to Vanessa’s birthday this weekend? Just for a few hours. She’s my only friend…”

The silence on the other end was heavy. Then it cracked like thunder.

“You think we sent you to Seoul to play?” her mother snapped. “You shameless girl. Parties? What next, you’ll wear short skirts and sleep around?”

“No! It’s not like that, I—”

“You ungrateful wretch! After everything we’ve done for you, you dare ask for this?”

Jessie felt her lips tremble. Her chest tightened. The anger boiled over.

“I’ve done everything you asked! I’ve lived like a prisoner! I’m done living in this cage. I’m going to that party.”

It was the first time she had ever shouted back.

There was a pause.

Then her mother screamed, “I’m telling your father!”

That night, her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Her father’s voice was cold when he called.

“Come home.”

She obeyed. Even if her soul screamed, her body still belonged to the habits of obedience.

She arrived the next day. As she stepped into the house, she felt the old dread coil in her stomach.

The belt came fast.

Each lash was sharp, cruel, familiar. She didn’t scream. She bit her tongue until it bled. Her body trembled but her eyes burned with something fierce. Her bruises were black by morning.

That night, lying in her childhood bed, she whispered to the cracked ceiling.

“God, if you're real, please get me out of here. I can’t survive this anymore.”

Tears soaked her pillow.

No reply came, except silence. But something stirred.

The city outside Jessie’s apartment window glowed with late-evening calm. Seoul was always moving—cars like blood through steel veins, neon signs pulsing like electric dreams—but for Jessie, the world might as well have been paused behind glass. She sat there silently, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the golden-lit streets below. Freedom was everywhere. Except in her world.

Inside, the room was clean but sparse—just like her life. A desk with sketch pads and a flickering monitor. A few framed photos of cherry blossoms. A stuffed bear from childhood she couldn’t throw away. Jessie was twenty-two, and for the first time in her life, she had her own space. A job. A routine. But not peace.

Her parents' voices still lived in her head. Their rules. Their cruelty. The pain she’d hidden like folded letters in her spine.

Growing up in a small town hours away from the city, Jessie was never a daughter. She was an obligation. Her mother treated her like a mistake that kept walking, breathing, asking for too much. Her father’s silence was never mercy—it was a storm waiting for thunder.

She couldn’t remember the last time she laughed in front of them.

She couldn’t remember a single birthday where someone asked her what she wanted.

Even now, away from them, the shadows of her childhood stretched into her present.

Jessie reached for her phone. Her fingers hovered before opening her chat with Vanessa, her best—and only—real friend.

Vanessa:

🎉 “My birthday dinner’s this Friday! You better come, or I’m hunting you down.” 🎈

💜 “Please, Jessie. Just once. Be there for you.”

Jessie read the message again. A party. A real one. She imagined candles, music, people who laughed loudly without fear. She had never gone to a party—not even in college. There was always the guilt. The shame. The echo of her mother’s voice:

"You want to roam the streets like a filthy girl? Don’t bring shame into this house."

But this time, Jessie didn’t want to say no.

This time… she wanted to try.

She picked up her phone and dialed home. Her hands were shaking. It didn’t matter that she now lived in Seoul, that she paid her own rent, had her own job. She still felt like that small girl in the living room corner, afraid to breathe too loud.

The phone rang. Then clicked.

“Why are you calling?” her mother snapped.

Jessie cleared her throat. “Umma… I was wondering. It’s Vanessa’s birthday. I thought I might go. Just for a few hours.”

There was a sharp silence on the other end, followed by a bitter laugh.

“Birthday?” her mother hissed. “Do you think life is a festival? Did we raise you for this shame?”

“I just… I want to go. She’s been there for me—”

“You think you can make your own choices now? Talking like a spoiled girl. Do you even know what people will say?”

“I don’t care what they say,” Jessie whispered.

“What did you just say?” her mother’s voice rose. “You ungrateful thing. I should have left you at the orphanage when I had the chance.”

Jessie felt something in her snap. For years, she had stayed quiet. For years, she had swallowed every insult, every bruise. But not today.

“I’m tired,” Jessie said, voice cracking but rising. “Tired of pretending I’m okay with this. You treat me like I’m nothing. Like I don’t deserve joy. I’m going to that party. Whether you like it or not.”

Her mother didn’t speak.

Then, coldly: “I’ll tell your father.”

The line cut.

Jessie dropped the phone. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might explode. But beneath the fear was something else—something new.

Defiance.

The next day, Jessie made the mistake of going home. Some part of her, small and wounded, still hoped. Still believed maybe they’d understand. That her mother would cool down. That her father wouldn’t…

She was wrong.

The door opened. Her mother stood there, face blank but eyes boiling.

“He’s inside,” she said. “Go.”

Jessie stepped into the living room.

Her father sat quietly, the leather belt already in his lap.

“Is it true?” he asked.

Jessie froze.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Raise your hands.”

She didn’t move.

“I said, raise them!”

The first lash made her knees buckle. The second, her breath stop. The third hit her ribs. And then more, until pain blurred into numbness.

She didn’t scream. Not this time. Not anymore.

The bruises would bloom deep purple by morning.

Later that night, curled in the corner of her old bedroom, she couldn’t sleep. Her skin stung, but it was nothing compared to the wound growing inside her.

She stared at the ceiling—peeling, cracked, the same color it had always been. And she prayed.

Not with words.

Just with the soundless ache of someone who had nothing left.

God. Universe. Anyone.

Save me. Please… Save me from this hell.

The morning light crept in, cold and indifferent. Her parents moved around the house as if nothing had happened. As if her pain was a forgotten spoon on the table.

Jessie knew then.

They would never change.

And she could no longer wait for them to love her.

That evening, she took a train back to Seoul, her bruised arms hidden beneath long sleeves. She stared out the window as the landscape blurred by, face pale but eyes dry.

Each mile between her and that house felt like a step toward the edge of the cage.

She would go to that party.

She would learn to smile again—even if her lips trembled.

She would break free.

Even if it took everything she had.

The days after Vanessa’s birthday blurred into silence. Jessie had gone back to her job in the city, eyes sunken, skin pale, long sleeves hiding bruises she no longer had the strength to explain. She smiled at coworkers, replied to emails, sat in meetings. But inside, it felt like she was made of glass—thin, cold, and one crack away from shattering completely.

She hadn't told anyone what had happened after the party. She hadn’t even told Vanessa. What could she say? That her father beat her with a belt for wanting to celebrate a friend's birthday? That her mother watched it happen without blinking?

Nobody would understand.

Nobody ever had.

Then, the call came.

She saw her mother’s name flash across her phone. For a moment, Jessie hesitated. But something in her chest still craved closure, even if she knew it wouldn't come. She picked up.

“You forgot to send money this week,” her mother said sharply, skipping even a greeting.

Jessie blinked. “What?”

“You think you’re some rich city girl now? You earn because we raised you. Don’t forget that.”

“I needed that money for rent this month—”

“You think we care? Your father and I should’ve stopped feeding you years ago. A disgrace like you doesn’t deserve to live comfortably.”

Click.

No goodbye. Just silence.

And just like that, the weight returned. Crushing. Suffocating. She stared at the wall for minutes—maybe hours. She didn't even cry.

The next few days passed in a fog. Jessie went to work, came home, barely ate. Each night she stared at the ceiling, begging for something—anything—to make the ache stop. But it didn’t. It only grew heavier.

Then came Sunday.

Rain fell outside like the sky was mourning her.

Jessie sat on the floor of her small apartment, the sound of dripping water from the window corner ticking like a clock. In her trembling hands was a kitchen knife. Not sharp. Not clean. Just something she grabbed out of the drawer after hours of pacing, of whispering to herself that maybe it would all be better if it just stopped.

She clutched the knife to her chest and dropped to her knees.

Tears rolled silently down her cheeks.

“God…” her voice broke as she looked up toward the ceiling. “How long do I have to suffer?”

Her sobs grew louder. For the first time, she let herself cry the way she wanted to as a child. She cried for the girl locked inside the house like a prisoner. For the bruises no one saw. For the nights spent praying that maybe tomorrow they’d love her. For the birthdays they never celebrated. For the freedom they never gave her.

She stared at the blade.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she whispered. “Nobody would care if I disappeared. Maybe they’d be relieved.”

She placed the blade against her wrist.

Just a light press.

A small slice.

Blood surfaced—thin, red, a single line.

But with it came something she didn’t expect.

Fear.

Not of the blood. But of dying without ever being free.

Her hands shook harder.

“I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “I just… I just don’t want this life. I don’t want to live this life anymore.”

The knife slipped from her hand.

It clattered to the floor, untouched again.

Jessie curled into herself, forehead pressed against the floorboards. “Please…” she whispered into the silence. “If anyone’s listening… God, universe, anyone. Give me a new life. Just one chance. I’ll fight. I’ll try. But I can’t do it alone anymore.”

The rain tapped gently against the glass. It didn’t answer her. But it didn’t leave either.

And for Jessie, that was something.

That night, for the first time in years, she didn’t pray for the pain to stop.

She prayed for strength.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring. She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t even know if she'd feel okay when the sun came up.

But she knew one thing.

She wasn’t done yet.

Somewhere—maybe far, maybe near—there was a version of life that didn’t feel like drowning. A version where she could breathe. Laugh. Be held without fear. Maybe no one cared right now. Maybe she was alone.

But what if… what if that changed?

What if her story wasn’t meant to end here?

With her hands still shaking, Jessie got off the floor and bandaged her wrist. She made tea—burned it—but drank it anyway. She opened her window just enough to feel the cool air on her skin.

Then she sat on the edge of her bed, whispered one last prayer into the night.

“Help me create a life I don’t want to escape from.”

She didn’t know how. Or when. Or with whom.

But she had something now she didn’t before.

Hope.

Faint. Fragile.

But real.