The Fujita family returned to their residence with a resolve that felt almost fragile in its intensity, each of them carrying a quiet determination to mend what had been broken with Yuma. They did not know how difficult the path ahead would be, nor how long it would take, but one thing was clear to all of them now: the first step mattered more than anything else, and it had to be the right one—just as Himari had said.
The day Yuma returned home, they greeted him without ceremony, without forced warmth or exaggerated concern, simply telling him welcome home as though trying not to disturb the delicate balance between them.
Yuma responded with a nod.
Nothing more.
He did not smile, did not return the greeting, and did not linger. He went straight to his room, his footsteps quiet, his presence retreating the moment it re-entered the house. The absence he left behind felt heavier than his arrival.
None of them allowed themselves to be discouraged. They had expected this. They needed to apologise, and they needed to do it properly.
Two days passed.
The weekend arrived.
That morning, Yuma came down for breakfast as he usually did, his movements subdued, his expression carefully neutral. Silence filled the dining room, thick and awkward, broken only by the faint clink of cutlery against porcelain. No one spoke. No one dared.
When Yuma finished eating, he stood and gathered his plate, preparing to leave as he always did.
That was when he heard it.
“Sorry, Yuma.”
It was Sasaki.
He paused.
Only for a fraction of a second—so brief it could have been dismissed as nothing—yet Sasaki saw it clearly. His shoulders stiffened, just slightly, as though the word had brushed against something raw beneath the surface.
He did not turn around.
Sasaki’s fingers tightened against the edge of the table. She had rehearsed nothing, and now, standing at the edge of this moment, she realised that whatever she had imagined saying had no place here. Every prepared sentence dissolved the instant she saw his back.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice quieter now, uneven. “I’m sorry for always putting your father and your siblings first. I’m sorry for thinking you were fine simply because you never complained.”
Yuma remained still.
“I’m sorry,” she continued, swallowing, “for cooking what everyone else liked, and assuming you would eat whatever was placed in front of you. For never asking what you wanted. For never noticing when you stopped asking too.”
The silence between them pressed heavily, stretching, waiting.
She did not reach out to him. She did not cry. She did not ask for forgiveness.
“I should have seen you,” Sasaki said at last. “And I didn’t.”
That was all.
Yuma set his utensils down carefully, the soft clink echoing far too loudly in the quiet kitchen. He carried his plate to the sink and washed it slowly, methodically, as though anchoring himself to the routine, to something familiar and safe.
He did not look at her.
When he finished, he wiped his hands, bowed his head slightly—not to her, but to no one in particular—and returned to his room.
The door closed without a sound.
Sasaki remained seated long after, her hands folded in her lap, the weight of the moment settling fully in her chest. This, she realised, was what taking the first step truly meant—speaking without expectation, and learning to accept silence as an answer.
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