She remembered that in her last life, she'd once seen a little test online called "Ten Levels of Loneliness, How Many Can You Endure?"
Back then, she casually compared herself to it and realized that for each level and the corresponding situation it described, from one to ten, she had always been alone. In her teens, when she first got gastroenteritis and the pain made her wish she were dead, she called 120 for emergency help by herself; in her twenties, when a lipoma grew on her leg, she went to the hospital alone for the examinations and the surgery; in her thirties, when she died in a car accident, she was still by herself.
One thing after another, she had made it through all on her own.
She even felt that being alone was pretty good.
So much so that in this lifetime, she realized she was actually allergic to being cared about.
Especially when she was sick—whenever her family showed that kind of concerned expression and tone of voice.
Her whole body would feel uncomfortable.
