Yuma did not change overnight.
He still left for work at the same time each morning, boarded the same train, sat at the same desk. His days remained filled with numbers, projections, patterns that made sense precisely because they asked nothing of him in return.
Yet something had shifted.
The corridor outside the room was unnaturally quiet, the kind of silence padded by thick carpets and closed doors, where even footsteps seemed to lose their purpose before reaching the end of the hall. Behind the glass wall of the private room, a nine-year-old boy lay propped against pale pillows, dressed in a soft blue patient’s outfit that hung loosely on his slight frame, as though it did not quite belong to him.
It was already eleven.
Kitahara Himari was often misunderstood at first glance.
Quiet. Calm. Forgettable.
That was the impression she gave — and the one most people accepted without question.
But Himari was observant.
She always had been.
Disowned by the Tsukimori family for marrying against their wishes, Hajime Tsukimori builds a modest life with his wife, Nozomi, and their four children. Their fragile stability collapses when the youngest, Fuyuki, is diagnosed with complex single-ventricle congenital heart disease, a condition that can only be corrected through a high-risk operation performed by a surgeon far beyond their reach.
Because of the partnership between the two companies, the Fujita and Kitahara families continued to meet — sometimes formally, sometimes not.
There were corporate events, such as product launches and anniversary preparations. There were dinners arranged for convenience that gradually became familiar. Occasionally, there were private outings that had nothing to do with work at all.
Yuma did not attend all of them.
The room was dark.
A man lay on the floor beside the bed, his body curled in on itself. Silent groans escaped his clenched teeth as pain tore through him. A crimson tattoo bloomed across his face and down his arm, its jagged patterns pulsing faintly beneath his skin. Sweat drenched him, soaking through his clothes and pooling against the cold floor.
As the pain intensified, the markings glowed brighter, as though something beneath his flesh was awakening.
The picnic was meant to be simple.
A short drive away from the city, the waterfall provided a constant backdrop of rushing water and cool mist. It was a familiar place, chosen more for convenience than sentiment — somewhere the parents could talk freely while the children occupied themselves.
The Kitahara and Sasaki parents settled into easy conversation almost immediately. Years of separation dissolved into shared laughter and overlapping memories, their voices blending with the sound of the water.
Six months into working life, Yuma had settled into routine.
His days were predictable: morning trains, the soft hum of computers, datasets that demanded precision and patience. As a junior data analyst, his work required long hours of focus — numbers, patterns, projections. He worked independently most of the time, communicating through reports rather than conversations.
It suited him.
Not because he enjoyed solitude, but because solitude was familiar.
The house was alive with laughter.
Candles flickered on the dining table, silverware clinking, voices rising in celebration. A surprise, they had said — a celebration for Haruma. The room brimmed with warmth, chatter, and the bright colours of joy that seemed almost too loud for Yuma to bear.
He stood in the corner, a faint smile carefully placed on his lips, his posture straight. His eyes scanned the room but did not settle. The excitement was not his; it never had been.
In a world where magic has faded into obscurity, Sakuramori Rion lives his tenth life.
Three centuries ago, the Sakuramori clan stood as guardians against evil, tasked with capturing and sealing beings that brought calamity to humanity. On the night Rion attempted to seal the most dangerous of them all—Wasureri—tragedy struck. Possession, bloodshed, and irreversible choices left the clan destroyed, and Rion condemned as a practitioner of dark magic by the one person he sought to protect.
University brought freedom, or at least the illusion of it.
Haruma enrolled in a local university but chose to live at home. His friends understood him, the layers of fear and fragility that still lingered from that long year of survival. The bodyguards remained — mostly in the background now, occasionally stepping forward when an unexpected event reminded the family how vulnerable he had been.
Yuma did not stay home.
By the time they were seventeen, the house had settled into a fragile kind of peace.
Haruma no longer startled at every sound. His visits to the hospital had decreased, spaced out into predictable intervals. The psychiatrist appointments remained, though less frequent now, and medication sat untouched for weeks at a time — sleeping pills prescribed but rarely taken, anti-anxiety tablets reserved for days when the world became too loud.
Haruma woke one morning and didn’t speak.
Not to the doctors.
Not to the nurses.
Not even to their parents.
His eyes opened, dark and unfocused, and when strangers came too close, his body trembled violently, breath hitching as if he were drowning in air. Alarms were raised more than once — not because his heart failed, but because fear had taken hold of him so completely that his body forgot how to calm itself.
The first time Yuma saw Haruma, he didn’t recognise him.
His brother lay on the hospital bed, swallowed by white sheets and tangled wires, his small body impossibly still. Tubes ran from his arms, his nose, his mouth — machines surrounding him hummed and beeped, their steady rhythm the only proof that Haruma was still alive.
Yuma’s breath caught in his throat.
Haruma was supposed to be waiting by the school gate.
Shuuji checked his watch for the third time, irritation prickling beneath his skin. Parents were already pulling away, children waving as cars disappeared down the road. The afternoon bell had rung nearly fifteen minutes ago.
Still no Haruma.
Hi, it’s Aika Miaka here.
First of all, I’d like to officially call it a wrap on Short Story 7: Where Love Learns to Let Go.
I don’t usually write love stories, mainly because I’ve never been quite sure how to approach them. This one, however, was inspired by a drama I watched — a familiar story of a childhood friend who harbours a long-time crush but can never be with the person she loves, simply because she is the second female lead. That sense of suppressed emotion, followed by heartbreak, reminded me how unforgettable a first love can be.
Hiyori introduced Ren on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
They met at the café Hinako had recently opened a small corner for weekend visitors. The sun slanted softly through the windows, making everything feel calm and familiar.
Asahi was the first to smile, extending a hand without hesitation.
“So you’re the one,” he said, eyes twinkling.
A month passed.
Life continued in its familiar rhythm—long hours, tired evenings, and meals eaten too late. Hiyori thought of him sometimes, but without longing. Just curiosity, faint and unforced.
They met again by coincidence.
It was nearly midnight at a convenience store, fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. Hiyori stood in front of the shelves, staring blankly at instant noodles, too exhausted to decide. Overtime had drained her completely.
Four years was a long time.
Long enough for first love to settle into memory, no longer sharp at the edges. Long enough for Hiyori to look back without pain, only a quiet fondness—like revisiting a place she once lived in, grateful for what it had been.
Asahi and Hinako had been together for four years now.
Hiyori had always believed that some people entered your life and stayed there forever.
Asahi was one of them.
They had met in kindergarten, two children left lingering by the classroom door after everyone else had gone home. He had offered her half his apple juice without a word, and she had accepted it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From that moment on, he became constant—walking her home, sitting beside her in class, listening when she spoke like her thoughts mattered.
