Five apologies, spoken by five different people.
Yuma did not feel relief.
Instead, the words reopened things he had long learned to live with. Not because the apologies were overdue—but because they dragged him back into the past he had never truly left behind. Each apology peeled away the careful layers he had built to survive, exposing memories he had endured quietly for years.
He remembered how he had learned to accept excuses as answers, how he had convinced himself that patience was the same as love. How he had hoped—again and again—to be found, to be included, to be chosen. To matter.
And how often those hopes ended in disappointment.
He had always been jealous of Haruma. Of the others.
His mother cooked their favourite dishes more often than not, never knowing that his own favourite was something simple—chicken karaage. She entered Haruma’s room regularly, checking on him, sitting with him. She stayed by his side during nightmares, held him until morning came.
But when Yuma was frightened, he hugged his pillow in silence, counting the hours until dawn and praying the nightmares would not return.
When Haruma struggled with homework, she sat beside him, patiently teaching him. She asked Arisa and Kotarou if they needed help with their assignments.
She never asked Yuma.
When he asked her to go to the shopping centre with him, she sent his grandparents instead. Crowded places weren’t good for Haruma, she said. Rehab, home-schooling, Haruma’s outings—she was always there.
What about him?
Yuma had believed that if he excelled—academically, competitively—his father would finally notice him. That Shuuji would look his way. Once, he brought home his exam results, waiting quietly for praise, or at least recognition.
He received a brief congratulations and watched the paper slip placed casually on the table.
That was all.
Since his mother was always with Haruma, he told himself his father would come to him instead. To cheer during sports day. To attend his quiz competitions. To watch him perform during the school festival.
Shuuji never came.
He provided allowance, paid fees—but never his presence.
Yuma collected certificates, achievements stacking quietly one after another. Eventually, he stopped showing them altogether, filing them away where no one would see. Even at his high school graduation, he stood alone while others posed for photos with the people who loved them.
He had asked Shuuji to come, just for a while.
The words must have vanished into the air.
The day he checked his university admission results, his hands shook. No one was there to steady him. When he was accepted into his preferred university, he did not cheer. Sasaki was absent. Shuuji was with Haruma again.
Arisa, too.
Did Haruma really need all of them?
There were countless times Yuma had asked her to come to his school, to celebrate with him—only to be met with excuses. Busy. Tired. Another commitment. Yet she had time for cinema outings with Haruma, time to travel with Kotarou.
He knew she did not mean to hurt him.
But intent did not soften the wound.
Kotarou’s gifts came to mind next.
A pair of running shoes in high school—stylish, expensive, one size too large. Yuma said nothing. He stuffed newspaper inside and wore them for half a year. A purple shirt followed. Unintentional, perhaps—but it still hurt. Yuma avoided colours Haruma liked, afraid people might mistake them for his favourites. He wore blue often, yet no one noticed.
For Haruma’s birthday, Kotarou gave him limited-edition novels he had spoken about endlessly. For Yuma, a practical backpack—for university. Something useful. Something thoughtless.
That was Kotarou’s way.
And Haruma.
How could he ever hate him?
Haruma was the brother he had almost lost—again and again. Found. Hospitalised. Recovering. Relapsing. Traumatised.
Yuma understood. He tried to.
But even understanding had limits.
Why had Haruma never noticed how all eyes followed him? Why had he never seen Yuma’s silence, the way he shrank himself smaller and smaller to make room for everyone else?
The family revolved around Haruma.
Yuma had wished—just once—that they would look at him the same way.
Then came the incident at the park.
The pain had been sharp, immediate. Yet no one asked if he was hurt. They rushed to Haruma, calling doctors, fussing over him.
Yuma had only himself.
When Haruma sneezed, the world stopped. When Yuma was unwell, no one noticed.
Why now?
Why only now did they say the words he had longed to hear?
After his heart had been broken beyond repair.
Did apologies change the past?
Could they fix what had already been shattered?
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