The first time Yuma saw Haruma, he didn’t recognise him.
His brother lay on the hospital bed, swallowed by white sheets and tangled wires, his small body impossibly still. Tubes ran from his arms, his nose, his mouth — machines surrounding him hummed and beeped, their steady rhythm the only proof that Haruma was still alive.
Yuma’s breath caught in his throat.
That wasn’t Haruma.
That couldn’t be.
His brother had always been warm, loud, full of restless energy. The boy before him looked fragile, almost hollow, as if life itself had been drained away and replaced with silence.
Malnutrition, the doctors said.
Multiple bruises.
Fractures.
Severe head trauma.
Words that meant nothing and everything all at once.
Haruma was rushed into surgery almost immediately. Then another. And another after that. Hours passed in the waiting room, stretching into something shapeless and cruel. Sasaki’s hands never stopped shaking. Shuuji sat rigid in his chair, his head bowed, his fingers clenched together as if praying without words.
Sometimes alarms rang from beyond the closed doors.
Sometimes doctors came out with expressions too careful, too neutral.
Once, Yuma saw his grandmother break down completely, her sobs raw and unrestrained as his grandfather held her, his own face pale and strained. Yuma had never seen them like that before. He didn’t know where to look, where to stand, what to do with the fear clawing its way up his chest.
There were moments when Haruma’s heart stopped.
Moments when nurses rushed in, voices urgent, bodies moving fast and precise. Yuma was ushered out every time, left staring at the closed doors, his nails digging into his palms as he waited to find out whether his brother would still be alive when they reopened.
Days blurred into weeks.
Yuma’s life became the hospital.
He sat quietly beside the bed whenever he was allowed, watching the slow rise and fall of Haruma’s chest, afraid that if he blinked for too long, it would stop. He talked sometimes — about school, about the weather, about things that didn’t matter — his voice small and careful, as if speaking too loudly might shatter what little remained.
Their older siblings, Arisa and Kotarou, returned from boarding school as soon as they received the news. Arisa cried openly, clutching Haruma’s unmoving hand. Kotarou stood stiffly at the foot of the bed, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving his younger brother.
The family gathered and scattered in turns, held together by exhaustion and fear.
Through it all, Yuma stayed quiet.
He understood. Everyone was scared. Everyone was hurting. Haruma had suffered far more than any of them. If their parents’ attention never left the hospital room, if their voices softened only when they spoke his name, it was only natural.
Yuma told himself that.
So he swallowed his fear, his loneliness, his questions. He stayed out of the way, sat where he was told, smiled when someone remembered to look at him. As long as Haruma was breathing, nothing else mattered.
Weeks turned into months.
Haruma remained unconscious.
Machines continued to breathe for him, to monitor him, to keep him tethered to life by threads so thin Yuma was afraid to touch them. Each day felt like standing on the edge of something vast and dark, waiting to see whether his brother would be pulled back — or lost forever.
Haruma was still fighting.
And no one knew whether he would win.
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