Himari let out a heavy sigh after hearing their full story. It was worse than she had imagined. The embarrassment on their faces was unmistakable—having to seek help from a stranger to mend something they themselves had broken, exposing a side of them they likely wished had never come to light.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Himari suggested after a moment. “We can talk more after we’ve eaten. This is a heavy topic—let’s take a short break first.”
Midori and Taiyou quickly seconded the idea, and in the end, the Fujita family gave in. Takeshi and Shuuji, meanwhile, retreated to Takeshi’s study to discuss upcoming company plans, leaving the rest of the house to settle into an uneasy calm.
Opportunities like this were rare, so Midori and Sasaki decided to cook together. Arisa and Kotarou followed Raito and Taiyou into the garden, partly to keep themselves busy, partly to see if there was anything they could harvest for dinner. As for Himari, the kitchen was a battlefield she knew better than to enter—her presence there was an uninvited disaster waiting to happen, a fact her family silently agreed upon. She excused herself and headed upstairs.
The moment she sank into the soft comfort of her bed, her thoughts drifted inevitably to the man who had become the centre of tonight’s discussion.
When Himari had first met Yuma, he had reminded her of a dim light bulb—still glowing, but so faint it seemed as though it might go out at any moment. As she spent more time with him, exchanging casual greetings, surprising him with small gifts, slowly getting to know him, that light appeared to recover. It was never dazzling, never bright enough to draw attention, yet it was steady enough to illuminate the space around him.
Then their interactions began to thin.
At times, the light dimmed again; at other times, it returned to that fragile balance—not bright, not dark. Soon came the unreplied messages, the polite absences at celebrations, the quiet line he drew between them, clear enough to warn her not to cross it. His distance reminded her of their picnic long ago: at first, the walls around him had been high, the door firmly shut. With time, he had let her in—only to push her back out again, closing the door tighter than before. This time, he had locked it.
The Yuma she last saw felt like a bulb that had finally burned out. No matter how many times one tried to flick the switch, the light refused to return. After hearing everything tonight, Himari could only conclude that there was far more damage than anyone had realised—far more that needed fixing, if that light were ever to shine again.
But before fixing anything, the real problem had to be identified.
Was the bulb itself faulty, requiring replacement? Was the issue with the switch? The wiring? Or was there simply no power left to sustain it? There were countless possibilities, and blind trial and error would only waste time, effort, and emotional cost. Without identifying the root cause, any attempt at repair would be meaningless.
Yuma was no different.
How long had this gone on? Since Haruma’s incident? Or had the fracture begun later —during middle school, high school, university? It depended on when the crack first appeared in Yuma’s heart, and when he himself became aware of it. Only Yuma knew the answer, and now that he had started pushing everyone away, there was no way to reach it.
What, then, could make him try again?
Even if it took time, what could possibly move him now?
Trying to mend Yuma’s relationship with his family was a double-edged sword. Success meant the beginning of recovery. Failure meant the end. There would be no second attempt, no room for mistakes. This was their final chance—either they healed the wound, or they shattered what remained.
Himari would be happiest if reconciliation were possible. But what if it wasn’t?
Yuma had already given up. He no longer waited for miracles, no longer hoped for change. He simply existed, drifting with the current, resigned to a life of quiet invisibility. The stakes were unbearably high, and Himari knew she had to be careful with whatever answer she gave them after dinner.
She reached for her phone and lay back against the mattress, opening her gallery. One photo stood out—a picture she had secretly taken when Yuma had been staring, almost drooling, at an advertisement for the newly released Flood Chocolate Ice Cream. She had been caught by the camera’s shutter sound, pretended nothing happened, and Yuma had merely smiled, never questioning her.
She switched to her messages and opened his chat. Yuma was pinned there, alongside her family. The last message she had sent was two days ago. She scrolled up, then down again, her eyes returning to that final message once more.
This time, she noticed something she hadn’t before.
Something clicked.
It might already be late—but there was, at least, a thin sliver of hope.
A knock at the door broke her spiralling thoughts. Raito’s voice followed, informing her that dinner was ready.
No comments:
Post a Comment