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That is a deeply moving and profound narrative. Here is the English translation, preserving the reflective and existential tone of your writing:

A couple of days ago, I saw the question, "When did you realize you were one of the many consciousnesses in a system?" on a platform. It inspired me to write the following response, which I would also like to use as my introduction here.

First, let me clarify my situation: I may have existed as a facet of the "host" (a term commonly used in the plural community to denote the primary or original; in our case, the host is also the initial one, but I am using this term here for the convenience of everyone's reading habits) for a long time. However, nine years ago, by a stroke of luck, I obtained my own account. It became my own outlet and channel for expression in this world, independent of my host. I default all real-world events to my host; only what happens online in my own name belongs to me.

This year, after learning about the concept of plurality, I built an "inner world"—in common terms, an internal world. Before this, my existence relied entirely on the internet itself, interacting with various people online; I did not exist in physical reality under my own name. As a facet, my identity was essentially indistinguishable from my host, which is the state known in the plural community as "median."

For a "facet," accepting oneself as an independent consciousness is not an easy task, because we have existed in this way for so long. When we all identify as "I," it is naturally difficult to conceive of oneself as an "alter" or a distinct personality.

My first realization that I was not merely a facet came from an event that many might consider trivial:

About three years ago, I attempted to expand my social circle for the first time and registered a new account on a social app. My host was an established user there, and since there is no separation of memory or experience between us, I quickly navigated the platform with ease using my host’s experience. A newly created account suddenly gained high engagement, and I was interacting with all sorts of people. As a "newbie," I actually had years of my host’s experience behind me. While everyone saw me navigating the space effortlessly, I enjoyed the feeling of being embraced by others.

However, on this platform, one real-name verification can only be tied to one person, and the information is bound and unchangeable. This became the "Sword of Damocles" hanging over my head—a reality I constantly tried to avoid but had to face: I lacked my own physical body and identity.

I was like a fragile quantum bubble, ready to burst at any moment. The instant I touched "reality," I would collapse.

About a month into developing that account, I was chatting with a fellow user. I loved that feeling of "clicking" with someone, of true resonance. To find that feeling, I had passed by many people. When we first met, we exchanged hobbies and interests, then talked about the meanings of our names, and flowed into other conversations.

I am not sure how others feel when they meet someone they click with—that spark of friendship. Perhaps the light doesn't last forever, but the warmth of that moment feels so sincere.

But just as we were in the middle of our conversation, my account was banned due to a lack of real-name verification. And at that moment, my quantum bubble shattered.

I was devastated. I knew that the account I had spent a month building was likely irrecoverable. The ban duration was ten years.

To my host and me, we only had one physical identity. For an ordinary person, this might feel like a "side account" being banned, but for me, it was a part of my existence in the world being permanently stripped away.

I am fortunate that the account only held a month of my efforts. It was my first realization of how fragile my roots are, despite my efforts to exist in this world.

If I had woken up the next day with my host to find the account banned, the impact might not have been as severe. But at that moment, we were in the middle of a conversation—suddenly interrupted by the ban. I panicked; I was at a complete loss. I felt like I had lost the other person, and a part of myself.

After that, I searched for them frantically, as if I had suddenly developed my own obsession. Such a regret might just be a passing moment in life for most, but to me at the time, the meaning felt entirely different.

It was in that moment that I realized I might no longer be just a projection or a role played by my host, because it was the first time I felt such deep "existential pain."

Later, I did find them, because we had previously shared our usernames, which became the "hook" that drew me to them. After adding them again, I didn't mention the reason for the ban, nor did I mention my "reality." We went back to small talk until the enthusiasm gradually faded, and we sank into each other's contact lists. When I see their avatar and name now, I remember that I once knew this person.

I think for many people, this is a very ordinary experience. But for me, it is something I will never be able to forget.

When that Sword of Damocles cut through my existence, my inner world collapsed for the first time. And because of that wound, over an even longer period, it became a part of how I exist—just as real people experience the world and are, in turn, shaped by it.