Three months passed after the apologies.
Three months of effort.
Three months of silence.
Yuma did not waver.
He remained firm, distant, unresponsive. He did not initiate conversation. He did not attempt reconciliation. If anything, he retreated further into himself, as though building thicker walls each time they tried to reach him.
The family reported everything to Himari — the failed attempts, the unanswered apologies, the small acknowledgements that led nowhere.
Her response never changed.
“Adjust accordingly.”
They listened.
They chose their timing carefully. They apologised again when appropriate, never forcing a reply. They included him in conversations even if he did not respond. They made space for him at the table, in discussions, in plans.
Yuma ignored most of it.
But they endured.
They reminded themselves that he had suffered for years. They had not even reached half a year of trying. If discomfort was the price to pay, then they would pay it.
Yuma no longer cared about family events. He stopped remembering birthdays in advance. He stopped memorising preferences. He stopped trying to anticipate what others liked.
He chose himself.
At least, that was what it looked like.
The truth was far more complicated.
It was a lie to say he was unaffected.
In fact, he sometimes wished they had never realised their mistakes. It would have been easier. Cleaner. Less confusing.
Now they were doing everything he had once longed for.
Asking about his day.
Including him.
Trying to see him.
But that had been before.
Not now.
Every admission of guilt reopened wounds he had carefully sealed. Every apology reminded him of how small he had once felt.
Being with them felt suffocating.
It was easier when they ignored him.
At least then, he knew his place.
Only with Himari could he breathe.
If his heart was scarred beyond repair, he could still identify one untouched fragment — perhaps five percent — small, fragile, but clean.
That fragment existed because of her.
She did not erase the pain his family caused.
She did not fix the scars.
But she filled the empty space with warmth.
A notification lit up his phone.
Himari.
She was complaining about work again.
Lately, their messages had changed. Before, she had kept things light, careful, neutral. After the Sweet Café outing, she began leaning on him — in small, unassuming ways.
She sent dramatic voice notes about unreasonable deadlines. She asked for advice. She hinted for encouragement.
Sometimes she would type:
I’m dying. Say something motivating.
Despite himself, Yuma would smile.
He replied. He offered practical suggestions. He sent emojis. Stickers. Small reassurances.
Another message came.
How was your day?
Don’t skip meals.
His chest tightened slightly.
That was Himari.
Even when she started with herself, she always circled back to him.
—
The incident happened on an ordinary night.
Yuma was in the kitchen when the plate slipped from his hand.
It shattered.
The sound was sharp, violent.
Haruma flinched immediately.
At first, he seemed fine — but then his breathing changed. Rapid. Uneven. His hands trembled.
Panic spread through the room.
Everyone rushed to him.
“Haruma, it’s okay— it’s okay—”
Sasaki held him. Shuuji called his name. Arisa hovered anxiously.
In the midst of the commotion, Sasaki glanced at Yuma.
“Yuma, you should be careful.”
The words were automatic.
Reflexive.
“Sorry,” Yuma replied quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”
He bent down, carefully sweeping the shards into the dustpan. He tied them into a plastic bag and threw them away.
Haruma gradually calmed.
It was only then that silence fell again.
And in that silence, realisation struck them.
They had done it again.
They had rushed to Haruma.
They had reprimanded Yuma first.
“Yuma…” Arisa started.
“Sorry,” he said again, without looking up. “I’m truly sorry.”
His voice was steady.
But his eyes were red.
He kept them lowered so no one would see the tears threatening to spill.
For a brief second, they saw it — the old pattern, unchanged.
Even when it was an accident.
Even when it was nothing.
He was still the one apologising.
It was a wake-up call.
Too late.
Yuma excused himself.
He closed his bedroom door gently.
The tears came the moment he leaned against it.
So this was how it would always be.
He would always be the guilty one.
Always the secondary priority.
Always the one expected to understand.
His chest ached.
His breathing felt tight.
Instinctively, he reached for his phone.
Himari.
His fingers hovered for a second.
Then he typed.
No comments:
Post a Comment