In the Year of Kwai You, I Forgot About the Sun

I can't remember the day when I first learned that I was not my biological child. I seem to have always known it again, as naturally as knowing my own shadow. But I remember one thing very clearly: one weekend, I was sitting on the bed playing with my iPad, and the sun was shining in. I thought it was a normal day, and then my mother took the tablet away. I cried, and she asked me if I had a fight with a friend, and I said yes. Not really. It was that afternoon that my ignorant feelings were shattered to pieces. I also longed for companionship. I longed for the word, just like a broad-minded person trying to prove through another existence that my existence can feel the warmth of sympathy. But why. Warmth, happiness, and joy, in my adolescent eyes, were like a crab that I raised in a basin and died naturally. I carefully cared for it, but it still died. Why was everyone moving forward so happily, but I was the only one who was still standing there, unable to breathe. Times have changed, Crab, you are in another world, how are you?