The group began to disperse at the train station, leaving only Aya behind. She lived two stations away from the school, and the train soon became emptier, the usual bustle fading into silence. Despite the loneliness, a soft smile spread across her face, one that seemed to glow in the dim light. It was as though she’d discovered something she’d been longing for, a quiet sense of fulfillment.

  As the train rumbled along, Aya gazed out the window at the stars twinkling in the vast sky. She chuckled softly to herself. "I'm glad everything went well," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the hum of the train.

  Leaning her head against the cool glass, she closed her eyes for a moment, letting the peaceful rhythm of the journey settle into her heart.

  Hajime was on his way home. He pulled out his earphones and tucked them into his bag, his steps slowing as he reached the familiar gate. For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the door of the house that had taken him in. Then, with a deep inhale, he opened the gate and walked toward the entrance.

  His hand hovered over the doorknob before finally gripping it. He took one more breath—deep, steady—then turned it and stepped inside.

  Just beyond the doorway, a woman in her forties was walking past the entrance to the dining room. She looked back and gave him a warm smile.

  “Welcome back, Hajime-chan,” she said gently.

  He smiled faintly and stepped in, closing the door behind him. “I’m home, Sachiko-san.”

  She nodded and disappeared into the dining room. “Go change your clothes and come down. We’re about to eat dinner.”

  “Okay,” he replied softly.

  Hajime crouched on the wooden floor and looked down at his trembling hand. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. “Get yourself together, Hajime,” he muttered under his breath.

  He slipped off his shoes, setting them neatly in the corner, and slowly made his way up the stairs. Each step felt heavier than the last.

  After changing into more comfortable clothes, Hajime made his way downstairs. The familiar scent of home-cooked food drifted through the air, but it didn’t bring comfort—it only made the weight on his chest sink deeper.

  He stepped quietly into the dining room and paused.

  There, they were—the family—sitting around the table, laughter in their voices, smiles on their faces, the soft clinking of dishes mixing with warm conversation. They looked like something out of a picture book. Happy and comforting.

  He stood there, unmoving.

  Something tightened in his chest. That warmth, that ease they had with each other—it felt distant. Like he was peering into a world he wasn’t meant to be part of. A place he was allowed to stay in, but not belong to.

  Then, Sachiko looked up. Their eyes met.

  She smiled, bright and gentle, the kind of smile that made people feel safe.

  “What are you standing there for?” she asked softly, patting the empty seat beside her. “Come join us.”

  His eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the warmth in her voice. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. But then he smiled and quietly walked toward the seat she had offered. He sat down, folding his hands on his lap for a second before glancing across the table.

  “Welcome home, Rui-san,” he said politely, meeting an adult’s eyes.

  Rui gave a small chuckle. “I just dropped by for dinner, you know?” he said, his voice easy and light. “I suddenly started missing my mother’s cooking and… well, before I realized it, my feet had already brought me home.”

  He scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin on his face.

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  Hajime let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sachiko-san’s cooking is really something. I can’t argue with that.”

  He smiled widely—but deep down, a faint crack began to show. They spoke to him with warmth, treated him with care, yet a quiet voice inside him still whispered:

  You’re just a guest here. He frowned a slight.

  While the conversation at the table grew deeper, Hajime found himself slowly drifting. Their voices blurred into the background, like a distant radio playing a song he didn’t quite understand. In the corners of his mind, guilt gnawed quietly.

  They’re all so kind… and yet, here I am… pretending.

  He smiled when they smiled. He laughed when they laughed. But inside, he felt like a stranger sitting at someone else’s dinner table. The warmth they offered—he didn’t think he deserved it. Not when everything about him felt like a lie.

  He swallowed that guilt like a bitter pill, keeping his posture straight and his expression light.

  Then, Rui’s voice cut through the hum of the room.

  “By the way, Hajime—Father asked me to deliver a message to you.”

  The mood shifted.

  Hajime lifted his gaze slightly, noticing how Rui’s tone had sharpened. The easy smile was gone now, replaced by something much firmer.

  “He said not to forget the responsibilities that are held upon you.”

  The air grew still for a moment. Hajime’s hands slowly tightened under the table.

  His gaze dropped. “Of course,” he replied quietly, his voice low but certain. “I won’t let him down.”

  He didn’t look up again after that, and the silence that followed felt a little too heavy for anyone to break right away.

  Rui let out a soft sigh, resting his elbow on the edge of the table as he propped his chin on his palm. His casual tone softened further, eyes watching Hajime carefully. “You don’t have to carry all that weight, you know,” he said. “All I really want is for you to enjoy high school—laugh a little, make memories you’ll want to keep and make love with someone you admire.”

  Hajime looked down at his plate, his chopsticks unmoving in his hand. The words felt foreign, like a language he had forgotten how to speak.

  Beside him, Sachiko gave a gentle nod, her smile warm as spring sunlight. She reached out and lightly patted his head, the gesture so natural it nearly made his heart ache.

  “Don’t let your father’s words tie you down too tightly,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “He just wants to make sure you grow strong—strong enough to stand on your own when the time comes. That’s all.”

  For a moment, Hajime didn’t move. The room was filled with the soft warming atmosphere and the scent of warm food, but it all seemed distant. Then, slowly, his eyes lifted.

  They were wide—not with surprise, but with something more fragile. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt. It was hard to tell.

  “…I understand,” he said finally, his voice gentle.

  A small smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  After dinner, Hajime quietly slipped out of the house without saying a word. The air outside was cool, brushing softly against his skin as he walked with no destination in mind—only the weight in his chest guiding his steps. He found himself at the riverbank, the same place he always went when the silence in his heart grew too loud.

  He stood still, close to the water’s edge. The moonlight shimmered across the surface, and for a moment, everything felt frozen—like the world had paused just for him.

  He inhaled deeply, held it in, and then—

  He screamed.

  A raw, broken scream that tore through the still night. One hand clutched his chest while the other clamped over his ear, as if trying to muffle his own voice. But it was no use. It poured out of him, years of confusion, pain, and the aching guilt of being loved by a family he wasn’t sure he deserved.

  It wasn’t just a shout. It was the sound of someone unraveling quietly for too long.

  From the bridge that arched gently over the river, a girl stood frozen.

  Her eyes locked on the boy below—on Hajime—his voice still echoing faintly through the night air. Her lips parted in disbelief; her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat. She hadn’t expected this. Not from him. The Hajime she saw in school—calm, composed, even a little distant—was nowhere in sight. This version of him felt… real like a human but somehow broken in pieces.

  The wind stirred around her, brushing through her hair, making it dance like the ripples in the water beneath. The night, which had been quiet just moments ago, now felt impossibly loud.

  Her expression hardened, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.

  “I guess… you’re no different after all.”

  The words left her in a whisper, swept away as soon as they were spoken. Then, without another glance, she turned and walked across the bridge—her footsteps light, but her heart heavy, as if she'd just glimpsed a truth too raw to carry.

  It was Shiori.