Six months into working life, Yuma had settled into routine.
His days were predictable: morning trains, the soft hum of computers, datasets that demanded precision and patience. As a junior data analyst, his work required long hours of focus — numbers, patterns, projections. He worked independently most of the time, communicating through reports rather than conversations.
It suited him.
Not because he enjoyed solitude, but because solitude was familiar.
There were colleagues, of course, but interactions remained minimal. Brief exchanges over email. Occasional meetings that ended as soon as the data was delivered. No one asked about his habits, his moods, or his weekends. No one lingered long enough to notice the silences he carried.
At work, Yuma was competent. Reliable. Unremarkable.
And invisible.
When he returned home on weekends, the contrast was sharp. The house was never quiet. Haruma’s presence shaped the rhythm of everything — from meal times to schedules — even now. He was better, undeniably so, attending university, laughing with friends, slowly reclaiming pieces of the life once taken from him.
The family watched him closely all the same.
Yuma watched too, from a careful distance. He smiled when spoken to, responded when asked, and stepped aside when attention shifted — which it always did. He had learned when to stop talking, when to pause mid-thought, when to retreat.
This was normal.
He told himself that often enough for it to feel true.
That weekend, the house was livelier than usual.
Shuuji and Sasaki welcomed guests they had not seen in years — Kitahara Takeshi and Kitahara Midori, former classmates reunited after decades apart. Conversation flowed easily between them, stories overlapping, laughter filling the space as if the years of absence had never existed. Their reconnection had led to more than nostalgia; business partnerships followed naturally, bridging past and present.
The Kitahara family had come along.
Their eldest son, Taiyou, blended into the room effortlessly, striking up conversations with Arisa and Kotarou almost immediately. Raito, the second child, lingered close to Haruma, their discussion quickly turning animated as they discovered shared interests.
And then there was her.
Kitahara Himari stood beside her parents, polite and composed. She spoke when spoken to, listened attentively, and kept her presence measured. Nothing about her demanded attention.
At least, not at first.
Yuma noticed her only because she did not move towards the centre of the room. While everyone else gathered in familiar circles, she remained just slightly apart, observing rather than participating.
Their eyes met briefly.
It wasn’t significant — or it shouldn’t have been. Her gaze was calm, assessing, neither intrusive nor lingering. She looked away almost immediately, turning her attention back to her parents.
Yuma dismissed it.
He was used to being glanced at, acknowledged only long enough for attention to move elsewhere. Yet, later during dinner, he felt it again — the subtle awareness of being watched. When he looked up, Himari’s eyes were on him once more. This time, she offered a small, polite smile before returning to her meal.
It unsettled him.
Not because of what it meant, but because of what it implied. His family’s eyes often passed over him, pausing only briefly before shifting back to Haruma. Himari’s gaze did not do that. When she looked at him, it was as if she had actually seen him — and that was unfamiliar.
Uncomfortable.
Yuma looked away, focusing on his food, forcing himself to blend back into the background. He told himself it meant nothing. A coincidence. Curiosity, perhaps.
Still, as the evening wore on, he remained acutely aware of his own presence in the room.
For the first time in a long while, Yuma felt conscious of his existence — not as someone’s brother, not as a secondary figure — but as himself.
It was a small thing. Insignificant, even.
But small disturbances had a way of growing.
And Yuma did not yet realise that something, quietly and without warning, had begun to shift.
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