The warmth did not follow him home.
When Yuma stepped inside, the entire family was gathered in the living room, the television flickering in front of them. The moment the door closed, several pairs of eyes lifted.
As though they had been waiting.
He moved towards the staircase.
“Have you had dinner?” Sasaki asked.
He nodded and continued walking.
He felt the weight of unsaid words trailing behind him. He knew they wanted to speak. He knew more apologies were waiting.
He could not endure another one.
Inside his room, after showering and changing into his pyjamas, he collapsed onto his bed.
His phone vibrated.
He unplugged it from the charger and opened the message.
Himari.
Had a lot of fun today. Let’s do this again.
A faint smile curved his lips—one that had not appeared often lately.
Below the text were the photos they had taken. The selfie across the table. The side-by-side one. The staff photo.
He studied them carefully.
In each picture, the focus seemed to settle on him—his expression, his presence. Not blurred into the background. Not partially cut off.
Present.
It startled him.
Photos with his family had rarely felt like that.
He wondered briefly why Himari had not mentioned his family at all. Not even once. Then he understood.
She had been careful.
She never pried. Never forced. She walked around the edges of his pain without stepping on it.
A flicker of guilt surfaced.
He still had not apologised properly.
Downstairs, the atmosphere remained tense in the days that followed. His family continued offering apologies in small, unassuming ways. No pressure. No demand for forgiveness.
But Yuma felt exhausted.
The pain had not lessened simply because words had been spoken.
What was the use of apologies now?
Time moved.
Just as Himari had suggested, they met occasionally. Short outings. Pizza. Street food. Convenience store dinners eaten outside under dim streetlights.
Sometimes she invited him.
Sometimes he initiated—especially on days when the walls at home felt suffocating.
With her, conversation remained light. Work. Food. Small annoyances. Shared jokes.
Never his family.
Never the wound.
And somehow, that restraint made it easier to breathe.
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