Haruma had avoided Yuma since the apologies began.
Not deliberately, not consciously—but every time he heard footsteps in the hallway, every time a door opened, his chest tightened, and he found an excuse to turn away. He told himself it was to give Yuma space. In truth, it was fear.
It happened in the late afternoon, when the house was unusually quiet. Yuma was in the living room, seated by the window with a book resting loosely in his hands, though he had not turned a page in some time. The light slanted in gently, catching dust in the air.
Haruma stood at the entrance for longer than he should have.
“I—can I talk to you?”
Yuma did not look up, but he nodded once.
That was enough.
Haruma stepped inside, his movements stiff, uncertain, as though approaching something fragile that might shatter if he breathed too loudly. He stopped a few steps away, hands clenched at his sides.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he admitted, his voice rough. “So I’ll just… say it.”
Yuma waited.
“I was scared,” Haruma said. “All the time. I was scared of getting hurt again. Scared of remembering. Scared of being alone.”
His fingers trembled.
“And everyone… they were scared with me. So they stayed. They watched me. They protected me.” His voice dropped. “And I let them.”
Yuma finally looked at him.
Haruma flinched—but did not look away.
“I knew,” he went on. “I knew they were choosing me. I knew you were being pushed aside.” His breath hitched. “And I told myself it couldn’t be helped. That I needed them more.”
His shoulders shook once, sharply.
“I never asked if you were okay.”
The silence stretched, taut and unforgiving.
“I thought,” Haruma whispered, “that because you were strong… because you never complained… that you wouldn’t break.”
His eyes burned.
“But you did. Quietly. Where no one bothered to look.”
Haruma bowed deeply, so deeply his forehead nearly touched his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For taking everything and leaving you with nothing. For letting them love me loudly while you were loved in silence.”
He stayed like that, unmoving, as though prepared to remain forever if that was the price.
At last, Yuma spoke.
“You didn’t ask them to forget me,” he said calmly.
Haruma’s breath caught.
“But you didn’t stop them either.”
The words were not sharp. That was what hurt the most.
“I know,” Haruma said hoarsely. “And that’s why I’m apologising. Not because they told me to. Not because I feel guilty.” He lifted his head slightly, eyes red. “But because every achievement you had… every moment you should’ve been celebrated… I was standing in the way.”
Yuma looked back at the window.
“I don’t hate you,” he said.
Haruma froze.
“But I don’t know how to stand beside you anymore.”
That was worse than anger.
“I don’t expect you to,” Haruma replied. “I just needed you to know… that I see it now. And that I’m sorry.”
Yuma closed his book.
“You can go,” he said quietly.
Haruma stood on unsteady legs, bowed once more—less deeply this time—and left the room.
Yuma remained by the window, the light slowly shifting across the floor, understanding that some wounds were not caused by malice—but by being loved too much, while someone else was loved too little.
And that kind of pain lingered the longest.
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