Himari tapped her finger lightly against her cheek, the familiar chat window still open on her phone. Two blue ticks glowed beneath the last message she had sent. She stared at them for a long moment, unmoving, as though the answer might surface if she waited long enough.
Her other hand drifted to the dining table, fingers tapping softly, rhythmically.
“Is something wrong?” Midori asked gently, placing a plate of freshly cut fruit on the table as she studied her daughter’s distant expression.
There was a pause — longer than usual.
“Not really.”
Midori blinked. Before she could respond, Takeshi emerged from his study, adjusting his glasses.
“Not really?” he echoed. “Is that a yes, or a no?”
Taiyou and Raito, just back from tending the garden, leaned against the chairs across from her, their attention now fixed on her face. It was rare for Himari — the only daughter, usually composed and observant — to look this troubled.
Slowly, Himari lifted her gaze from the phone and looked at each of them in turn, from her father to her mother, then to Taiyou, until it finally rested on Raito.
“It isn’t wrong,” she said quietly. “But it was wrong.”
The silence that followed needed no words.
Their expressions alone conveyed it — confusion, disbelief, a collective What? None of them remained standing. One by one, they took seats around the dining table, waiting.
Himari did not acknowledge their reactions.
“It was wrong from the beginning,” she continued. “It only became ‘right’ because people kept assuming it was. As time passed, no one questioned it anymore. They stopped thinking about whether it was truly right at all.”
Raito blinked several times, slowly chewing on an apple as he tried to process her words. Taiyou, momentarily overwhelmed, popped a grape into his mouth instead of responding. Takeshi and Midori exchanged a glance while peeling an orange, listening without interruption.
“So,” Midori said carefully, “there is something wrong. People failed to notice it, you noticed it — and now you feel like you should point it out.”
Himari nodded.
“And you’re hesitating,” Takeshi added, “because doing so might damage relationships.”
“Yes.”
“Between whom?” Raito asked, still chewing.
“Three parties,” Himari replied. “Party A and Party B already have a fractured relationship — it may be beyond repair. Party B and Party C, on the other hand, have always been close. If I intervene, that relationship may never be the same again.”
Raito tilted his head. “Which party are you?”
“Not me,” Himari answered. Then, after a beat, she smiled faintly. “But us. We.”
“We?” Taiyou echoed, startled.
“Party C,” Himari said calmly, before either of her parents could speak.
The table fell silent again.
She glanced down at her phone. Another message. Another pair of blue ticks.
“Do it,” Takeshi said at last. “If it’s the right thing to do.”
Himari smiled — subdued, resolute.
After months of being quietly ignored, Himari finally saw Yuma again at a company charity event.
As she had suspected, he was not only avoiding her — he was avoiding his own family.
She tried to approach him, tried to speak, but he stepped away each time, a silent warning in his movements, a line drawn firmly in place. During the event, he sat apart from the others despite sharing the same table. When dinner was served, he excused himself and disappeared without explanation.
No one questioned where he went.
When he returned later, no one asked where he had been.
Yuma did not touch his food or his drink. His expression was carefully blank, distant — colder than when she had first met him. Watching him then, Himari realised something with a sinking certainty: he had retreated further than before.
Perhaps it was already too late.
Still, she decided to try.
Her opportunity came one evening when everyone stayed late at the office. Yuma was absent. Exhausted from reviewing files and documents, Himari suggested a short break, and the others readily agreed. They gathered in the meeting room, stretching stiff limbs, rubbing tired eyes.
“Let’s play a game,” Himari said suddenly.
“A game?” Sasaki repeated, surprised.
She nodded. “A game designed especially for the Fujita family.”
Raito and Taiyou exchanged glances, puzzled.
Despite the odd timing, everyone agreed.
“Haruma will join the second round,” Himari added.
Haruma nodded quietly.
“Form pairs.”
Shuuji and Sasaki sat together. Arisa and Kotarou naturally took seats side by side. Haruma remained close, but slightly apart, near the edge of the table.
“I’ll ask questions,” Himari explained. “Answer as quickly as possible. Each correct answer earns one point.”
They nodded.
Himari sat opposite the five Fujita family members, her own family gathered behind her, watching intently.
“Haruma’s favourite colour?”
“Purple!”
“Favourite song?”
“Lemon by Kenshi Yonezu!”
“An animal Haruma dislikes?”
“Spiders.”
The questions continued, rapid and effortless, answers coming without hesitation. Laughter and competitiveness filled the room. When the round ended, Shuuji and Sasaki had eleven points, Arisa and Kotarou nine — every answer correct.
Applause followed.
Himari smiled.
“Second round,” she said. “Haruma joins the siblings’ team. Each question is worth five points.”
Exclamations rippled through the room. Even the spectators behind her stiffened. The stakes were suddenly higher.
“Ready?”
“Yes!”
The clock read 10:15 p.m.
Himari took a breath.
“What is Yuma’s favourite colour?”
The room fell silent.
Smiles faded. Eyes shifted. No one spoke.
“What is Yuma’s favourite food?”
Still nothing.
Himari did not wait.
“Name two of Yuma’s friends.”
“What song does he listen to most?”
“What food is he allergic to?”
“Where did he go during his second-year school trip?”
“What is his dream car?”
“What season does he like best?”
Each question landed heavier than the last.
Shuuji’s hands slowly curled into fists on the table. Sasaki stared at the floor. Arisa’s lips parted, then pressed together. Kotarou’s brows furrowed in quiet confusion. Haruma sat frozen, his gaze fixed ahead, breathing shallow.
The silence stretched — thick, suffocating.
After a long moment, Himari spoke again.
“Blue,” she said. “His favourite colour is blue. His friends are Kamiki Ichigo and Nanba Junishi. He loves chicken karaage. He likes chocolate — ice cream, cake, biscuits. He listens to King Gnu, especially Chameleon. He’s allergic to shrimp. He went to Kyoto on his school trip. He loves winter. His dream car is a Nissan GT-R.”
She stopped.
No one spoke.
Slowly, the weight of it sank in.
“This,” Himari said quietly, “is what troubled me.”
Her voice softened as she watched them lower their heads, one by one.
“Why didn’t you know?”
They looked up.
“How is it that you can know everything about one person — and almost nothing about the other — when both of them are equally precious to you?”
Her tone never rose. There was no accusation in it, only grief.
“These were simple questions. Things anyone could answer without thinking. Yet not one of you could answer even a single one.”
She paused.
“Do you realise you’re losing him?”
No one turned away.
“I understand,” she continued. “You were afraid of losing Haruma. You were afraid someone would disappear again. But Yuma was there. He has always been there — standing beside you, waiting to be seen. And while he waited, he slipped further away each time you failed to notice him.”
“You don’t need to give him everything,” Himari said softly. “Just sometimes. From time to time. Let him be a priority. Put him at the centre, even briefly. Acknowledge him. Celebrate him.”
Her gaze moved across them.
“Why was that so difficult — when you do it so naturally for Haruma, for Arisa-san, for Kotarou-san?”
The room remained silent.
But this time, it was no longer empty.
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