That day, Kotarou realised just how deeply they had been hurting Yuma.
He had overheard the conversation between Yuma and Arisa by accident, standing just out of sight when voices were raised and then abruptly fell into silence. He heard the words Arisa could not take back, and later, the sound of her door closing. He did not go after her. He did not try to mediate. He understood that whatever had broken could not be fixed by intrusion.
In Meisa High School, the biology department is well-equipped. We possess an extensive collection of specimens—frogs, lizards, fish, insects—used regularly during practical lessons. Dissection classes are always… entertaining. Some students turn pale at the sight of exposed organs, while others remain disturbingly calm. It is, all things considered, a beneficial subject, particularly for those aspiring to become doctors or veterinarians.
(sighs heavily)
Arisa did not plan to apologise.
If she were honest, she had been avoiding the thought altogether, skirting around it like a bruise she refused to press. She had seen what happened after their mother spoke, after their father bowed his head and said the words out loud.
Yuma had not forgiven them.
That frightened her.
She told herself she had reasons. She was busy. She was tired. She had her own pressures. She was not the parent. She was not responsible in the same way.
And yet—
They met by accident.
Yuma was in the entryway, tying his shoes, his movements precise, unhurried. Arisa halted when she saw him, the words spilling out before she could weigh them.
“Going out?”
Yuma nodded.
She hesitated, irritation flaring where guilt should have been. “You always do that. Leave without saying anything.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she had chosen wrong.
Yuma’s hands stilled. Slowly, he straightened and looked at her—not with anger, but with something far more unsettling.
Expectation.
“I mean,” she rushed on, folding her arms, “you don’t have to be so distant. We’re family.”
The silence stretched.
“You weren’t distant when you wanted something,” she added, immediately regretting it.
Yuma lowered his gaze. He did not argue.
That made it worse.
“It’s not like we ignored you on purpose,” Arisa said defensively. “You could’ve said something. You could’ve told us if you were unhappy.”
“I did.”
Two words. Calm. Even.
They landed harder than any raised voice.
“When?” she asked, too quickly.
“I asked you to come to my sports day,” Yuma said. “You said you were busy.”
Her throat tightened.
“I told you about the school festival. You said you’d go if you had time.”
She remembered. Or rather—she remembered forgetting.
“And when I got into university,” he continued, quieter now, “you said, ‘That figures.’”
Her mouth opened.
But standing there, she could hear how empty it must have sounded.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said quickly. “I just thought—you were always good at things. You didn’t need us fussing over you.”
“You never fussed over me,” Yuma replied.
There was no bitterness in his voice. Only fact.
Her arms fell to her sides.
“I thought,” she admitted, her voice lowering despite herself, “that if I didn’t get your attention, it was because you didn’t need it. Or maybe… because Haruma needed it more.”
The truth slipped out before she could stop it.
“I told myself it wasn’t unfair,” she went on. “I told myself you understood. And when you didn’t complain, I took that as permission.”
She swallowed.
“I said things. Jokes. Thoughtless comments. And you never fought back, so I assumed they didn’t hurt.”
Her voice wavered.
“I’m sorry,” Arisa said, awkwardly, as though the word did not quite belong to her. “I’m sorry for deciding what you could endure without ever asking you.”
She looked at him, uncertain, exposed.
“But I don’t know how to fix this,” she confessed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Yuma reached for the door.
“I’m not asking you to fix it,” he said quietly. “I just wanted you to know.”
He paused, hand resting on the handle.
“You always spoke as if I was invisible because I chose to be.”
The door opened.
“I wasn’t.”
He stepped outside and closed it behind him.
Arisa remained standing in the entryway, realising too late that the most damaging things she had ever said were not born of cruelty—but of carelessness.
Rikka High School, disappear.
Today, while conducting a listening exercise with Class 2-A, our school was suddenly bombarded by what can only be described as an explosive sound. At first, I thought something had malfunctioned inside our classroom.
I was wrong.
Shuuji had always believed that providing was enough.
Work had demanded his time, his attention, his energy, and he had told himself—more than once—that this was what being a father meant. He worked so his family would never lack anything. He worked so the house could remain standing, so their lives could continue without fear.
Somewhere along the way, he had mistaken presence for responsibility.
The Fujita family returned to their residence with a resolve that felt almost fragile in its intensity, each of them carrying a quiet determination to mend what had been broken with Yuma. They did not know how difficult the path ahead would be, nor how long it would take, but one thing was clear to all of them now: the first step mattered more than anything else, and it had to be the right one—just as Himari had said.
The day Yuma returned home, they greeted him without ceremony, without forced warmth or exaggerated concern, simply telling him welcome home as though trying not to disturb the delicate balance between them.
Yuma responded with a nod.
Nothing more.
Rikka High School. How I wish that institution would simply disappear from the face of the Earth.
Today, while teaching Class 2-A, a series of alarms began blaring from the direction of the neighbouring school. At first, I assumed it was merely their class bell—an irritation, but a tolerable one. I was wrong.
It was the fire alarm.
