The hospital room was cold, sterile and impersonal, every surface gleaming with a clinical whiteness that made me feel more like a specimen than a person. The sharp, biting scent of antiseptic stung my nostrils, mingling with the faint, forced sweetness of flowers someone had thoughtfully left on the windowsill. They seemed out of place here, like a thin attempt at making this bleak room feel less like a tomb.
I lay there, limbs heavy and numb, eyes barely open but locked onto the flickering TV screen mounted high in the corner. The news was on, the anchor's voice smooth and polished perfectly rehearsed, like a performance crafted to veil the cold reality beneath. But every word pierced me like a blade, twisting painfully in my chest.
"..Y/n L/n, daughter of the illustrious L/n family, renowned prodigy pianist with numerous accolades, was rushed to the hospital yesterday following an apparent suicide attempt. The incident has sent shockwaves through the community, raising questions about the pressures faced by young talents in high society…"
The screen switched to a live feed outside the L/n mansion, gleaming under the harsh midday sun like a fortress. The camera lingered on two statuesque figures standing side by side with practiced grace.
My parents.
My mother, immaculate in an expensive designer dress, her diamond earrings catching the sunlight, flickering like cold flames.
Her lips were curved into a tight, controlled smile that never quite reached her eyes.
My father, immaculately groomed, adjusted his cufflinks with the casual confidence of a man who knew his power and intended to keep it intact.
The reporter's chipper voice cut through the silence of the room.
"Mrs. L/n, can you update us on your daughter's condition? And how is your family coping during this difficult time?"
My mother dipped her chin slightly, nodding once, prim and perfect. "Thank you for your concern. Y/n is receiving the best medical care available. We are hopeful for her full recovery. She is strong always has been and this will be no different."
The camera swung to my father, who spoke smoothly, his voice calm but edged with the steel of command. "Our priority is, of course, Y/n's health. We appreciate the overwhelming support from our community. Our family's reputation and legacy remain intact, despite this unfortunate incident."
My stomach churned, dry and hollow.
Legacy. Reputation.
Words they wrapped around themselves like armor.
That's all I was to them.
A legacy to uphold. A reputation to polish and protect.
Not a daughter.
Not a person.
The screen faded to a commercial break. I turned my head slowly, blinking back the sting of tears threatening to fall. My throat was tight with a bitter mix of anger and exhaustion.
They weren't coming here because they cared about me.
They were coming here because the appearance of caring was necessary.
Because the world had to see their perfect family unbroken.
Because their name had to remain untarnished.
And me? I was just the problem to be managed, hidden behind closed doors, a quiet disaster no one dared speak of in public.
The silence of the hospital room pressed down on me, heavier than ever.
I was trapped inside a life where my worth was measured not by who I was, but by how well I fit the image they wanted to show the world.
And in that moment, I hated them for it.
Later that afternoon, the door creaked open.
My mother stepped inside first, her heels clicking sharply and deliberately against the sterile linoleum floor a sound that demanded attention, as if announcing her grand entrance. She carried herself like she owned the room, every movement calculated and precise. My father followed behind, his expression carefully unreadable but radiating the same cold, detached superiority I'd come to expect from them.
They didn't approach me they stood just far enough from the bed, like I was some delicate artifact, too fragile or too tainted to be touched. Their eyes didn't look at me, but through me, as if I was already invisible.
"My, my," my mother said, her voice clipped and rehearsed, dripping with the kind of fake concern that never reaches the heart. "You really know how to make an impression, don't you, Y/n? Such a public spectacle."
I said nothing. Why waste my breath on a performance I'd heard a thousand times?
My father cleared his throat, folding his arms like a general addressing a failure in his ranks. "This behavior… it's beyond unacceptable. We've invested everything in you countless hours, endless opportunities, sacrifices you wouldn't even begin to understand. And this is how you repay us?"
I swallowed hard, feeling the bitterness rise but refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing it.
"Your reputation is our reputation," my mother continued, her tone sharp as a blade. "This… mess, plastered all over the news, it's the last thing the L/n name needs right now."
I wanted to scream. I am not your reputation. I am not your trophy. But the words caught in my throat. They didn't want to hear that. They only wanted control.
My father leaned in slightly, his eyes boring into mine with a cold, demanding intensity.
"Do you understand the stakes here? You have responsibilities, Y/n. To yourself, yes but more importantly, to us. To the future we're building. The legacy you're supposed to uphold."
Their disappointment wasn't sorrow or regret it was entitlement. A silent declaration that my existence was a privilege they bestowed, not a bond they shared.
My mother's voice dropped, almost mocking in its sweetness. "Maybe next time, think twice before acting so… dramatically. We have a reputation to maintain."
With that, they turned sharply on their heels and left without another word.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the room colder, emptier like I had been erased again.
And I was left wondering if their love was conditional on perfection, if I was just a project to be managed and a name to be protected… then what was I really worth to them at all?
I lay back against the stiff hospital pillow, watching the faint dust motes dance in the sterile afternoon light filtering through the blinds. Their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving behind a silence so heavy it pressed against my ribs like a vice.
They never came for me, I thought bitterly. They came for the image. For the headlines. For their precious reputation.
The thought curled around my mind like smoke, choking and intoxicating all at once.
And what about me?
I was supposed to be their masterpiece, their golden child flawless, talented, perfect. But no one asked if I wanted to be that. No one cared about the cracks beneath the polished surface.
I closed my eyes, a smirk twisting at the corner of my lips. Well, congratulations. You got your spectacle.
I imagined their faces on the evening news smiling, composed, answering questions with all the practiced ease of a staged performance. I was the tragic story, the "broken prodigy," and they were the grieving, dignified parents who said all the right things.
But behind those smiles, behind the diamond earrings and tailored suits, there was nothing. No warmth. No guilt. No real care.
Just cold calculation.
I knew their kind of love: transactional, conditional, a currency traded for success and status. And no matter how many trophies I brought home, no matter how many "sacrifices" they claimed, I was still just a name on a ledger.
I let out a slow breath, feeling a strange clarity settling over me.
If I'm just a project to be controlled, then maybe it's time I take control.
Maybe it was time to stop being the perfect daughter they demanded.
Maybe it was time to be me even if that meant breaking everything they worked so hard to build.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.
It opened a crack.
Kuroo's head peeked inside, eyes dark but gentle.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
I glanced at him, then back at the ceiling. A sly, defiant smile played on my lips.
"Better than them," I said softly. "Much better."
And for the first time since I'd been here, I felt something flicker inside me.
Something like hope. Or maybe just rebellion.
Either way, it was mine.
Kuroo stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He pulled a chair close to my bed and sat down, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving mine.
"You don't have to pretend around me," he said quietly.
I scoffed, turning my head toward the window. "Pretend? With my parents? Please. That act ended years ago."
He chuckled softly, but there was no judgment in it just understanding.
"I don't get it," I murmured, voice low. "How can they say all those things on TV, put on that perfect face, and then come here just to lecture me? Like I'm the problem."
"They're scared," Kuroo said thoughtfully. "Of losing control. Of the mess they can't clean up with money or power."
I met his gaze, a flash of something fierce lighting in my eyes. "They don't want a daughter, Kuroo. They want a trophy."
He nodded slowly. "And trophies break when you throw them too hard."
For a moment, silence wrapped us. The hum of machines, the distant murmur of hospital sounds, it all felt strangely insignificant here.
Then I laughed. A bitter, hollow sound that surprised even me.
"So, what now? What am I supposed to do? Be the perfect daughter again? Go back to being their little golden puppet?"
"No," Kuroo said firmly. "You're more than that. You're Y/n. And I'm not going to let them define you."
His words settled in the air between us like a promise.
For the first time since the rope tightened around my neck, I felt the stirrings of something I hadn't dared to hope for freedom.
Maybe they had the reputation.
Maybe they controlled the public story.
But here, right now, I could take back my own narrative.
And this time, it wouldn't be their version.
Kuroo glanced at the nurse's station outside the door before turning back to me, his expression serious but soft.
"They're planning to discharge you in two days," he said quietly. "Doctors told me your parents pushed for it. Said the hospital stay is bad for the family's image."
I blinked, a bitter laugh escaping me. "Of course they did."
He reached into his bag and pulled out a scarf dark, thick, and soft. Gently, almost reverently, he wrapped it around my neck, covering the faded bruise and faint marks.
"You won't have to hide forever," he said, his voice low. "But for now… this'll keep you safe from prying eyes."
I let the fabric settle, feeling a strange mix of comfort and vulnerability. It was a small thing, but it meant more than he probably knew.
"They want you out so they can control the narrative," Kuroo added, eyes locking with mine. "But whatever happens, you're not just a headline. You're not a scandal. You're not their project."
I swallowed hard, the weight in my chest loosening just a little.
"Thanks, Kuroo," I whispered. "For… being here."
He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Someone's gotta keep you from disappearing again."
I wanted to believe him.
And maybe, just maybe, I could.