The Day I Got Sick Alone, I Realized I Wanted a Home

That morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a congested nose. I thought it was just a cold, so I made some ginger tea and took some medicine, trying to push through the day. But during a virtual meeting, I found I couldn't speak; my throat felt like it was on fire.

I messaged my team: "Taking half a day off to see a doctor."

No one replied; everyone was busy, as usual.

I put on my coat and stepped outside, only to realize it was raining. I didn’t have an umbrella and didn’t feel like going back to get one, so I pulled my hood over my head and walked to the subway station.

That moment hit me.

I realized that for years, I’d been handling everything alone—sickness, moving, late nights, breakdowns.

I wasn’t afraid of being alone, but I was starting to feel tired.

The hospital was crowded. I waited half an hour to register, then sat on a bench, sniffling and coughing.

A young couple sat next to me. The boyfriend held a cup of hot water, blowing on it before handing it to his girlfriend.

"Don’t talk," he said gently. "I’ll explain everything to the doctor."

She nodded and leaned into his coat.

I coughed, and the boyfriend glanced at me, then pulled his girlfriend closer.

I smiled and looked down at my phone.

My mother used to take care of me when I was sick. She’d make pear soup, stick fever patches on my forehead, and sit by my bed peeling apples. I used to find her nagging annoying, but it made me feel safe.

She passed away when I was in college. Since then, no one has fussed over me.

I’ve had a few relationships since then. One girlfriend took a day off to care for me when I had a fever.

She made egg noodles, wiped my face with a warm towel, and read a book quietly while I rested.

When I woke up, she smiled and said:

"Am I taking better care of you than your mom did?"

I didn’t say anything. I just held her hand.

But we eventually broke up.

She wanted a stable home, and I wasn’t ready to settle down.

The doctor finally called me in.

He examined me briefly and said:

"It’s pharyngitis. I’ll prescribe some medicine. Drink plenty of water."

I nodded and took the prescription.

While waiting for my medicine, I received a notification:

"Your food delivery points are about to expire."

I chuckled.

Even my points get reminders,

but no one reminds me to eat.

I got home around 3 PM. The rain was still falling.

I changed into dry clothes, took my medicine, and wrapped myself in a blanket on the couch.

The TV was on, but I wasn’t watching.

Suddenly, a thought surfaced:

Do I want a home?

Not just a place to live—

but someone who would say:

"Why aren’t you home yet?"

"Did you take your medicine?"

"Do you want me to pick you up?"

I used to think being alone was freedom.

But that day, I realized:

Freedom, without someone to share it with, is just loneliness.

I coughed, pulling the blanket tighter.

The room was warm, but I still felt cold.

I looked up at the ceiling and whispered:

"I don’t want to go to the doctor alone anymore."

No one heard me.

But I knew—I’d finally admitted it.

Maybe this is the beginning.

Maybe I’ve started to allow myself to want care.

To want someone to wait for me.

Maybe, just maybe—

I do want a home.