University brought freedom, or at least the illusion of it.
Haruma enrolled in a local university but chose to live at home. His friends understood him, the layers of fear and fragility that still lingered from that long year of survival. The bodyguards remained — mostly in the background now, occasionally stepping forward when an unexpected event reminded the family how vulnerable he had been.
Yuma did not stay home.
He moved into a dorm. He carried his books, his laptop, his carefully curated life, and left the house behind every morning. In the bustling campus, he laughed more freely, spoke more easily, and let his personality bloom in ways no one at home saw. Friends knew a cheerful, attentive Yuma; no one knew the quiet ache that followed him like a shadow.
Home was different.
Family gatherings remained, though now more structured — a birthday here, a dinner there. Haruma received the lion’s share of attention, naturally. The slightest scrape or cough set off a flurry of worry and action. Bodyguards appeared, doctors were consulted, medication checked. The family hovered, protective to the extreme, their relief and caution visible in every glance.
Yuma watched. And swallowed.
Even a minor injury to Haruma tightened his chest as if a hand had squeezed around his heart. The ritual was familiar now: the panic, the fuss, the care that seemed to orbit only one person. Yuma had grown used to it, learned to stand silently on the edge, smile when required, nod when praised.
And hide the rest.
He smiled at dinner. He laughed at jokes. He joined in conversations. Yet, in quiet moments — when no one looked — the weight returned. The sting of being visible but unseen. The ache of being cherished only in comparison. The shadow of always being second, no matter how well he tried.
It was exhausting. But he endured.
Sometimes, he thought of the love he had once been willing to give freely, without reservation. Now, he tucked it away, a secret kept from everyone — perhaps even from himself. Too dangerous, too fragile. To love openly meant risking heartbreak, and Yuma had learned that lesson too early.
At university, he could mask it. At home, he could endure it. He carried both worlds like separate rooms in a house — one bright, one dim — careful not to let the light spill into the shadowed corners.
Haruma thrived under care, and Yuma let him.
It was what a brother did.
But the quiet moments — the looks left unnoticed, the sighs swallowed, the tiny pangs of jealousy carefully hidden — they gathered like dust in the corners of his heart.
One day, perhaps, someone might notice.
But for now, he endured.
Always.
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