By the time they were seventeen, the house had settled into a fragile kind of peace.
Haruma no longer startled at every sound. His visits to the hospital had decreased, spaced out into predictable intervals. The psychiatrist appointments remained, though less frequent now, and medication sat untouched for weeks at a time — sleeping pills prescribed but rarely taken, anti-anxiety tablets reserved for days when the world became too loud.
He still did not attend school.
Lessons continued at home, carefully structured around his limits. On better days, he went out — to the cinema, to quiet cafés — always accompanied, always watched. The presence of bodyguards had become so normal that no one questioned it anymore.
Haruma tried.
That alone was enough to make everyone proud.
Yuma watched all of this from the edges.
He went to school every day, his routine steady and unremarkable. He had friends now, classmates who joked with him and studied beside him, people who thought of him as calm, reliable, easy to be around. Teachers praised his consistency. His grades were good. Nothing about him caused concern.
And that, perhaps, was the problem.
At home, attention shifted easily, instinctively, towards Haruma. Conversations paused when Haruma entered the room. Plans were adjusted when Haruma felt overwhelmed. If he flinched, even slightly, the atmosphere changed immediately — voices softened, movements slowed, reassurance offered without hesitation.
Yuma understood why.
He truly did.
But understanding did not stop the feeling that crept in — subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. A sense of being slightly out of step, like arriving a moment too late to a conversation that had already moved on.
They still spent time together. Family dinners happened. Weekend outings were planned. His parents asked about school, about his friends. His grandparents checked in on him, proud of how well he was doing.
Yet, more often than not, their attention drifted back.
To Haruma’s expression.
To Haruma’s mood.
To Haruma’s comfort.
Yuma found himself pausing mid-sentence, his words left hanging as someone turned to check on his brother. He didn’t mind — or at least, he told himself he didn’t. Haruma’s condition mattered more.
It had to.
Still, something inside him shifted.
It was not anger.
Not resentment.
It was quieter than that.
A small, persistent loneliness that followed him even in rooms full of people. A weight that settled in his chest whenever he watched his family move instinctively around Haruma, forming a protective circle that Yuma never quite stepped into.
At night, he lay awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, wondering when things would feel normal again.
Then he felt guilty for thinking that.
Normal had nearly cost Haruma his life.
So Yuma swallowed the thought and turned onto his side, forcing sleep to come. He reminded himself that this was temporary. That everyone was still healing — not just Haruma, but the entire family.
He told himself to be patient.
To be kind.
To be understanding.
If something inside him cracked during those years, it did so quietly, without sound or spectacle. Nothing broke enough to demand attention. Nothing hurt enough to be named.
Not yet.
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