There was a subtle change in Yuma, one that had begun quietly, almost imperceptibly, and yet its presence grew heavier with each passing day. That change was Himari. With her, Yuma had felt a warmth he had long forgotten existed, something gentle and unfamiliar, something that reminded him of how it felt to be seen, even briefly.
For that reason alone, being with his family had begun to hurt more than before.
It was not that they were cruel. It was not that they rejected him outright. It was the absence — the way attention never lingered on him, not even for a moment, the way concern always flowed past him as though he were standing slightly out of frame. His chest would tighten without warning, a suffocating pressure he had learned to endure in silence.
The difference became painfully clear during dinner two weeks ago.
Sasaki had prepared nikujaga — tender meat and potatoes simmered in a sweet broth, generously filled with carrots. Shuuji served him without thought, placing two spoonfuls onto Yuma’s plate. The sight of it struck him harder than he expected, a sharp pang lodging itself beneath his ribs.
They shared meals almost every day — breakfast when schedules aligned, dinner when he returned home on time, lunches when work allowed — and yet, none of them had ever noticed.
He disliked carrots.
Not strongly enough to complain. Not enough to push the plate away. He had eaten them every time, quietly, obediently, until disliking them had become something he no longer acknowledged aloud. Still, the realisation hollowed him out.
How was it that someone he had met only twice, someone he had spoken to properly only once, had noticed something so small — while the people he had lived with all his life had not?
His thoughts drifted to the snow globes tucked away in his room, a gift he had never expected, given without occasion or obligation. He had placed them carefully inside a drawer, as though afraid they might shatter simply by existing too openly.
Last weekend had only deepened that ache.
The Kitahara family had been invited to the opening of a newly launched branch of a well-known cakehouse, and the Fujita family had accompanied them. The VIP table was filled with neatly arranged desserts — strawberry shortcake, lemon tartlets, matcha mille-feuille, cream-filled éclairs — each one more elaborate than the last.
Yuma’s gaze settled instinctively on a chocolate cupcake.
He reached for it just as the waitress placed the tray down, only for Kotarou to take it first, passing it to his sister without hesitation. Yuma withdrew his hand at once, fingers curling back towards himself as though he had never reached out at all, his attention shifting to the remaining cakes.
It was normal. There was nothing to be hurt over.
He repeated that thought until it almost sounded convincing.
Of course they would not know he liked chocolate cake. Every birthday he had shared with Haruma had been filled with strawberries — strawberry swirl cheesecake, strawberry cream pound cake, strawberry roll cake — all chosen with Haruma in mind. Yuma had eaten them without complaint, smiling when expected, never once asking for something different.
It had been Himari, again, who had quietly packed two slices into a small box before they left — chocolate fudge cake and Black Forest gateau — handing them to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
That, too, he had hidden away.
Today, however, something happened that crushed him more deeply than the rest.
They were at the park, the whole family together, when a child rode past recklessly on a bicycle. The impact was sudden. Yuma and Haruma were knocked to the ground almost at once.
Panic erupted instantly.
Everyone rushed forward, voices overlapping, hands reaching out — all of them drawn to Haruma. The moment his body stiffened, the moment his breathing faltered, they knew. The signs of his post-traumatic stress were unmistakable, triggered by the collision, by the memory of being beaten, of being powerless.
They surrounded him, speaking softly, steadying him, checking every visible injury.
Haruma’s arm was bleeding where it had scraped against the pavement, his face marked with shallow cuts. Someone was already calling the family doctor as they hurried home.
Yuma followed behind them.
No one waited.
By the time they arrived, the house was filled with urgency, all of it orbiting around Haruma. As the others gathered in the living room, Yuma walked past unnoticed and entered his own room.
Only then did he allow himself to feel it.
His hands trembled as he pulled off his long-sleeved shirt, revealing the damage hidden beneath the fabric. His right arm was badly grazed, the skin torn and raw, blood smeared unevenly along his forearm and shoulder — the kind of injury that burned sharply even at rest, the pain deep and relentless.
He reached for the white medical kit on the top shelf of his wardrobe.
The routine was familiar. Clean the wound. Disinfect it. Apply ointment. Bandage it carefully. He swallowed a painkiller without water, welcoming the dullness it promised.
When he finished, his gaze drifted to the study table — more precisely, to the first drawer.
He opened it and took out the two snow globes he had hidden away for so long.
He held one in his hands and shook it gently. Fine white flakes spiralled down over a tiny frozen scene, settling slowly, beautifully, as though time itself had softened. For a moment, he allowed himself to watch.
Eventually, the snow fell still.
Yuma clenched his left hand until the tension became unbearable, then released it slowly. He placed both globes back inside the wardrobe drawer, pushed it shut, and locked it.
Some things would never change.
And perhaps it was better that they never did.
He lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. The tears came quietly, slipping down his cheeks without sound, unnoticed — just as he had always been.
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