Haruma woke one morning and didn’t speak.
Not to the doctors.
Not to the nurses.
Not even to their parents.
His eyes opened, dark and unfocused, and when strangers came too close, his body trembled violently, breath hitching as if he were drowning in air. Alarms were raised more than once — not because his heart failed, but because fear had taken hold of him so completely that his body forgot how to calm itself.
The diagnosis came gently, carefully spoken.
Post-traumatic stress disorder.
Certain sounds startled him. Sudden movements made him flinch. Uniforms — police, security, even hospital staff — sent his pulse racing. Sometimes, even their parents’ faces frightened him, as though familiarity itself had become unreliable.
But Yuma was different.
When Yuma sat beside the bed, Haruma did not recoil. When Yuma spoke, softly and without urgency, Haruma listened. His fingers twitched, then slowly curled into Yuma’s sleeve, gripping it like an anchor.
The doctors noticed.
They suggested short visits at first, supervised and quiet. No crowds. No pressure. Yuma became the bridge between Haruma and the world — not because anyone asked him to be, but because Haruma trusted him.
Perhaps it was because Yuma was still a child.
Perhaps because he was his twin.
Recovery came in fragments.
Haruma’s body, once reduced to skin and bone, began to gain weight again. Bruises faded. Cuts healed. Casts were replaced, then removed. But his legs, unused for months, refused to obey him at first. Rehabilitation was slow and painful — learning to stand, to balance, to take a single step without collapsing.
Yuma watched from the side, his hands clenched, heart pounding harder with each attempt than Haruma’s ever did.
The family’s life reorganised itself around hospital schedules, therapy sessions, and specialist appointments. Work was postponed. Gatherings were cancelled. Celebrations passed quietly or not at all.
No one complained.
Yuma didn’t either.
By the time Haruma was deemed stable enough to return home, nearly a year had passed since the kidnapping. Yuma had grown taller. His voice had changed slightly. Childhood had slipped forward while no one was looking.
High school came.
Haruma did not go.
The idea of classrooms, corridors, strangers — the place where he had been taken — was enough to trigger panic attacks severe enough to leave him shaking and breathless. Doctors advised against forcing him. Instead, tutors were arranged. Lessons were held at home. Progress was slow but steady.
Bodyguards appeared quietly, almost unobtrusively at first. One at the gate. One nearby when Haruma left the house. Safety became routine.
Yuma, meanwhile, went to school every morning.
He wore his uniform, packed his bag, and walked out the door as if everything were normal. He made friends. He laughed at the right moments. Teachers praised his composure, his maturity.
“You’re very understanding,” adults often said.
Yuma believed that was a good thing.
At home, conversations revolved around Haruma — his progress, his sleep, his triggers, his next appointment. Yuma listened, nodded, asked practical questions. When plans changed suddenly because Haruma was unwell, he accepted it without complaint.
He told himself it was only natural.
Haruma had suffered far more than he ever had.
Haruma needed them more.
Sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet and everyone else was asleep, Yuma felt something tighten in his chest — a dull ache, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He ignored it. There was no space for selfish feelings. Not now.
Not when Haruma was still learning how to live again.
So Yuma adjusted.
He stepped aside when needed. He made himself smaller when attention shifted. He smiled, reassured, and stayed strong — because that was what a good brother did.
The cracks had not appeared yet.
Or perhaps they had — just thin enough to be mistaken for nothing at all.
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