That day, Kotarou realised just how deeply they had been hurting Yuma.
He had overheard the conversation between Yuma and Arisa by accident, standing just out of sight when voices were raised and then abruptly fell into silence. He heard the words Arisa could not take back, and later, the sound of her door closing. He did not go after her. He did not try to mediate. He understood that whatever had broken could not be fixed by intrusion.
Arisa did not come down for dinner that night.
Kotarou placed a tray in front of her door instead, knocking once before leaving it there. He did not wait for a response.
It was well past midnight when he saw Yuma in the kitchen.
The house was dark, save for the dim light above the sink. Yuma stood there quietly, glass in hand, as though careful not to disturb the silence that had settled over the household. Kotarou froze at the threshold.
He had not intended to apologise then.
He had told himself he would wait—find the right timing, the right place, the right words. Apologies, he believed, should be delivered properly, not carelessly, not when emotions were still raw.
But Yuma turned slightly, noticing him.
And Kotarou spoke before he could stop himself.
“I always gave you convenient presents.”
The words sounded wrong the moment they left his mouth.
Yuma paused.
“Bags. Shoes. Shirts. Perfume,” Kotarou continued quietly. “I picked colours that were easy. Designs that wouldn’t stand out. I never once asked myself whether you would like them.”
His fingers curled at his sides.
“I thought… as long as I gave you something, that would be enough.”
Yuma did not move.
Kotarou swallowed.
“And then I realised something,” he said. “Every present you gave me was different.”
Yuma’s grip on the glass tightened, just slightly.
“You paid attention,” Kotarou went on. “You remembered what I liked. You spent time looking for things that would make me happy. The crystal animal figurines—because of you, I completed all one hundred and eight.”
His voice wavered, though he did not raise it.
“I never noticed what you liked,” he admitted. “Not once. You knew me. I never bothered to know you.”
The silence stretched between them, heavy but unbroken.
“I’m sorry,” Kotarou said. “For treating you like someone who didn’t need to be understood.”
Yuma lowered the glass to the counter.
“I didn’t mind the presents,” he said quietly. “I minded that they could’ve been for anyone.”
The words landed with devastating clarity.
Kotarou closed his eyes briefly.
“I should have thought harder,” he said. “I should have tried.”
Yuma turned away, rinsed his glass, and placed it upside down on the rack.
“I’m tired,” he said, not unkindly.
He left the kitchen without another word.
Kotarou remained where he was, staring at the empty counter, understanding that apologies were not measured by sincerity alone—but by how long one had failed to see what was standing right in front of them.
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