Jimin watched as all of his siblings left the house. He had made them each a lunch. He hoped they all enjoyed them.

But he wouldn't know, because he wasn't going with them.

He was stuck inside while everyone else left.

He knew it was because he wasn't smart enough to go to school with the others yet.

But it made him sad.

He wanted to play with Kookie and Tae.

But instead, he was stuck at the kitchen table, sitting across from Miryo, who would look at his worksheet and circle half of it in red before handing it back.

Jimin just sighed and stared at the paper. "Miryo, can I take a break?"

"When you fix your answers."

Jimin sank down further into his seat. "I can't. It's too hard."

Miryo just stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "Too hard?"

"I don't understand it at all! I can't do this!"

Miryo thought for a moment before nodding and standing up.

Jimin swallowed, sitting up straighter. "Where- where are you going?"

She looked down at Jimin. "I'm leaving."

"What? Leaving?" Jimin asked, his eyes wide with panic. "Why? You- you can't!"

Miryo shrugged. "You just told me that you can't. If you decide that you're not tough enough to learn, then I'm not going to waste my time teaching you."

Jimin bit his lip. "But-"

"I'll be back tomorrow. Let me know at that time whether or not you want to continue being tutored. If not, I'm gone for good." Miryo grabbed her keys and left, closing the door softly but smoothly behind her so as not to unnecessarily wake Namjoon.

Jimin sat by himself at the kitchen table, more alone than ever, a sheet of his mistakes in front of him. He felt his eyes growing wet before he saw drops of water hit the page. He wiped at them furiously, trying to erase their existence, but the red ink smeared, and his thumb tore a hole in the paper.

He crumpled the paper and held it up to his face, the thin paper absorbing his tears.

He just wanted to be with him family, but this - English - was preventing him from doing so.

He'd overcome everything - being stolen, being indoctrinated, being raised by fake parents - only to be barred entry at the final threshold.

He made sure his tears were quiet. He didn't want to wake Namjoon.

Jimin let go of the paper, the sodden, crumpled mass bouncing once on the table before rolling and stopping. Jimin clenching his hands into fists and drove his palms into his eyes, scrubbing at them and trying to get rid of the wetness. As he looked up, he saw Lala sitting in the windowsill.

He pushed back his chair slowly and walked step by step over to the windowsill. He brought his left hand up slowly to caress the flower petal. It was soft under his fingertip, pliant, forgiving.

The petal fell off at his touch.

He jerked back, his back hitting the kitchen island, and he winced from the pain of the counter's edge digging into his shoulder blades.

Why do I ruin everything?

Why can't I do anything right?

Why do they still love me when I'm like this?

He sank down to the floor, his back sliding against the island.

He knew he would have to put on a smile and wake Namjoon up in a few minutes for lunch. He knew he would have to pretend to be the adorable, sweet, innocent, guileless child they all expected him to be, because that was the child they'd lost.

He knew that they didn't want him.

They wanted 4-year-old Jimin.

They wanted the kid they'd lost.

Not the kid that remained.

He saw the way they would tense whenever he slipped and told them something about his time being raised by the Song couple.

He saw the way they looked at him, like he was a monster, and if they just pretended those 5 years never happened, everything would be perfect.

He knew they all hated the Song couple.

He knew he was supposed to hate them too.

But he didn't, he couldn't. They had raised him as their own.

They had loved him.

Not just the 4-year-old Jimin.

They had loved him. Every day, every second.

They'd taken care of him.

They'd raised him.

But Jimin knew the others didn't care. They didn't want to hear about it or think about it or acknowledge it.

To them, he'd always be 4: innocent and untroubled and happy.

But he wasn't innocent; he was guilty, guilty of loving the Songs as his parents, even for a time.

He wasn't untroubled; he was struggling with everything, with adjusting to living with them, with interacting with other people, with his education.

He wasn't happy; he was wearing a mask so that they could be happy.

But was his happiness really worth more than theirs?

He wasn't very good at math apparently, but he knew that six was larger than one.