The day I stood on the rooftop of the 38th floor, my family group chat was celebrating my younger sister's treatment plan. I lowered my head and looked at the old scars on my arms, replying with a single word: "Okay." Mom called, her voice weary. "What are you making a fuss about now? Your sister is this sick. Who has time to deal with your emotions?" For the past two years, I had been unable to sleep through the night, repeatedly begging her to take me to the hospital, but she was convinced I was competing with my sister for love. Later, as I drifted through my own home, Mom warmed milk for my sister, and Dad walked in carrying a strawberry cake. No one mentioned me. I reached for the water glass on the table, but my fingertips passed straight through it.