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The train ride back feels longer than it should, stretched thin by anticipation rather than distance, each passing station marked less by geography and more by the quiet tightening in Kirara’s chest. She sits by the window with her hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers resting too still against the soft fabric of her baby blue skirt, her reflection faintly layered over the city rushing past in blurred streaks of gray and light.
Every so often, she smooths the skirt down again, though it hasn’t shifted, pressing her palms lightly against the fabric as if she can steady herself through the repetition. She had stood in front of the mirror that morning for a long time, debating whether to change—something simpler, something easier, something that might soften the inevitable—but in the end she hadn’t. She had chosen this. Chosen herself. Now, watching her reflection in the glass, she wonders if that choice had been courage or something closer to defiance.
Her phone buzzes once in her lap, the sound startling in the quiet. Hakari.
Text me when you get there. She stares at the message longer than necessary, her thumb hovering over the screen before she types,
I will, and nothing more. There are other things she wanted to say—I’m nervous, I don’t want to go, come with me next time—but she doesn’t, because saying them would make them real, and if they become real, she might not get off the train at all.
The house looks exactly the same.
That’s the first thing she notices when she steps off the train and makes her way there, her steps slowing as the familiar structure comes into view. The same muted exterior, the same clean lines, the same quiet, controlled presence that once felt grounding and now feels suffocating. Nothing has changed, and somehow that makes everything worse. She stands at the door longer than she should, her reflection faintly visible in the glass panel beside it, and she studies herself in it—hair longer now, soft around her face, earrings catching the light, makeup subtle but deliberate, carefully done. She looks like herself. She is herself. Her hand lifts, hesitates, then knocks.
The door opens quickly, almost immediately, as if they had been waiting. Her mother stands there, her eyes flicking over Kirara once, then again, slower this time, lingering in a way that makes something tight and uncomfortable curl in Kirara’s chest. The pause is brief, but not brief enough.
“…Come in,” her mother says.
The house is warm when she steps inside—too warm, the air thick in a way that makes it difficult to breathe properly. Everything is familiar in a way that no longer feels like comfort: the arrangement of furniture, the muted colors, the quiet order of it all. Her father is already in the living room, seated as though he had expected her arrival down to the minute. He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t greet her. He just looks at her, and that look alone is enough to make her shoulders draw in slightly, her posture tightening despite herself.
She sits carefully, smoothing her skirt again, hands returning to her lap like they belong there, like they know where to go when she doesn’t. The silence stretches.
“So,” her father says finally, his tone measured, controlled in a way that feels deliberate, “this is… how you’re presenting now.”
Kirara nods. “Yes.”
Her mother leans forward slightly, her gaze sharp. “You didn’t think to tell us before making these… changes?”
“I tried to,” Kirara replies quietly, her fingers tightening just slightly against the fabric in her lap. “I did tell you.”
Her father exhales, slow and heavy. “We thought it was a phase.”
Something in her chest cracks, quietly but distinctly. “It’s not,” she says, and there’s a tremor in her voice now that she can’t quite hide.
“You’re very young to be making decisions like this,” her mother continues, her tone firm, certain in a way that leaves no room for discussion.
“I’m not—”
“You don’t understand what this means,” her father cuts in, not raising his voice, but making it clear that he doesn’t need to.
“I do,” Kirara insists, her voice tightening. “I do understand.”
“No,” he says. “You think you do.”
The room feels smaller.
The air heavier.
Her chest tightens as she struggles to draw in a full breath.
“This isn’t you,” her mother says.
That—more than anything else—lands.
Kirara inhales sharply, her composure slipping. “It is me,” she says, her voice shaking now despite her effort to steady it.
“You’ve been influenced,” her father replies immediately. “Those people you’re staying with—”
“No—”
“They’re filling your head with things that don’t belong there.”
“They’re not!” Kirara’s voice breaks, louder now, the control snapping under the weight of everything she’s been holding in.
The room stills.
Her chest rises and falls too quickly, her vision blurring as tears gather despite her attempt to stop them.
“They’re the only ones who actually see me,” she says, and the words come out raw, unfiltered, too honest to take back.
Her father’s expression hardens. “They’re not your family,” he says, each word deliberate. “We are.”
The words hit differently.
Not sharp.
Not explosive.
But heavy.
Final.
Kirara’s breath stutters, something in her chest collapsing inward in a way that feels quiet but devastating.
“…Then why don’t you act like it?” she asks, her voice breaking completely now, the question slipping out before she can stop it.
The silence that follows is immediate.
And complete.
Her parents don’t answer.
They don’t need to.
Because the absence of an answer tells her everything she needs to know.
She doesn’t remember leaving.
Only the cold air.
The way the door closed behind her.
The way her lungs suddenly felt like they could expand again and still couldn’t get enough air.
Her steps are fast, uneven, her vision blurred by tears she can’t stop, her hands shaking as she fumbles for her phone and then doesn’t even look at it when it buzzes. She just moves, because if she stops—even for a second—she knows she’ll fall apart completely, and she doesn’t want that to happen there, not in that place, not where she just learned she doesn’t belong.
By the time she reaches Suguru’s apartment, her chest aches from holding in too much, her breathing uneven and shallow as her hands tremble against the door.
It opens.
Warmth spills out.
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Kirara steps inside, and the moment the door closes behind her, everything she’s been holding together shatters all at once.
Suguru looks up from the couch just as she stumbles forward, her breath breaking into a sob so sharp it seems to tear out of her chest, her composure completely gone as she crosses the room without thinking, without hesitating, collapsing into him as if he is the only thing keeping her from falling apart entirely. She climbs into his lap, her arms wrapping tightly around him, her face pressed into where his neck meets his shoulder as the sobs come uncontrollably, one after another, each one louder than the last.
“S’guru—” she tries, but the word dissolves into another broken sound.
Suguru catches her immediately, instinctively, his arms coming around her without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steady at her back as her body shakes against him. “Hey—hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, his voice calm and grounding despite the urgency of the moment, his hand moving slowly against her hair, her back, wherever she needs it most. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
Kirara cries harder at that, her fingers clutching at his shirt as if she might disappear otherwise, her entire body curling into him, seeking something solid, something steady, something safe.
The bedroom door opens abruptly, and Hakari steps out, already mid-step before he registers what he’s seeing. He stops instantly, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm in the span of a second.
“Kirara—?”
He crosses the room quickly, dropping beside them, his presence immediate but careful, his hand hovering for a moment before settling gently against her back. “What happened?” he asks, his voice low but tight with concern.
Kirara can’t answer.
She just cries.
Hakari exhales slowly, grounding himself as he stays close, his hand moving carefully, reassuringly along her back as Suguru continues to hold her, the two of them working in quiet tandem without needing to say anything to each other.
Time stretches, indistinct and slow, marked only by the gradual softening of Kirara’s sobs into quieter, uneven breaths as exhaustion begins to take over. Suguru doesn’t let go, his hand continuing its steady rhythm against her back, his voice soft and low when he speaks, calling her sweetheart, it’s alright, you’re safe, each word gentle and consistent in a way that slowly, gradually grounds her.
Hakari stays beside them the entire time, his presence unwavering, his hand occasionally brushing her arm, her shoulder, her back—never intrusive, never demanding, just there.
Eventually, Kirara’s body goes heavy in Suguru’s arms, her breathing evening out as sleep overtakes her.
Suguru adjusts his hold carefully, making sure she’s supported, her head resting securely against him.
Hakari watches, relief written plainly across his face as he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “…She went to see them,” he says quietly.
“I assumed,” Suguru replies.
“They said something,” Hakari adds, his jaw tightening.
Suguru looks down at Kirara, at the traces of tears still visible even in sleep. “…Yes.”
Hakari exhales sharply. “…Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, quieter: “…Thanks.”
Suguru glances at him. “For what?”
Hakari gestures slightly, his gaze still on Kirara. “…Being there for her.”
Suguru’s expression softens, just slightly. “Of course.”
When Kirara wakes, it is slower this time, her awareness returning gradually as she registers warmth first, then the steady rhythm of breathing beneath her cheek.
She shifts slightly.
Looks up.
Hakari.
“…Kin-chan?” she murmurs.
His eyes open immediately. “Hey.”
Her voice is softer now. “…Did I fall asleep?”
“Yeah,” he says.
She hesitates. “…Suguru—?”
Hakari smiles faintly. “He carried you to bed. You didn’t wake up.”
Kirara’s chest tightens.
“…Oh.”
Hakari brushes her hair back gently, his touch careful. “You okay?”
She pauses.
Then nods.
“…Better.”
He pulls her slightly closer.
She lets him.
Easily.
Naturally.
And for the first time since she stepped into that house—
Kirara feels like she can breathe again.
Kirara doesn’t fall back asleep.
Not really.
Her body rests, curled into Hakari’s warmth, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, his hand spread lightly against her side as if he’s anchoring her there—but her mind doesn’t quiet in the same way. It drifts, unsettled, slipping in and out of half-formed thoughts that never quite resolve, images and words looping in ways that make her chest tighten even in the safety of the room.
They’re not your family.
The words come back first.
Not loud.
Not sharp.
Just… present.
Like they’ve always been there, waiting.
Kirara’s fingers curl slightly into Hakari’s shirt.
Her breathing stutters.
She hadn’t realized she was holding it.
Hakari notices immediately.
He always does.
His hand shifts, not abrupt, not questioning—just a slow, gentle movement along her side, his thumb brushing once, twice, grounding in its consistency.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice still rough with sleep but already attentive. “You’re awake.”
Kirara doesn’t answer right away.
Her face presses a little closer into his chest instead, her forehead resting just beneath his collarbone, her hair brushing lightly against his skin.
“…Yeah,” she says eventually, but the word is thin, fragile in a way that doesn’t match the truth.
Hakari doesn’t call it out.
He doesn’t say you’re not okay.
He just tightens his hold slightly, careful, making space for her to speak if she wants to—and just as importantly, not forcing her to if she doesn’t.
Silence stretches.
Soft.
But not empty.
Kirara swallows.
“…They said I’m not me,” she whispers, the words slipping out before she can decide whether she wants to say them.
Hakari stills.
Not completely.
Not in a way that pulls away from her.
But enough that she feels it.
Feels the way his attention sharpens, narrows entirely onto her.
“That I’m confused,” she continues, her voice quieter now, the words dragging as if each one is heavier than the last. “That I don’t understand what I’m doing.”
Her fingers tighten in his shirt.
Hakari’s jaw sets.
“They said…” she pauses, her breath catching, her throat tightening again as the memory resurfaces in full. “…they said you’re not my family.”
The room feels smaller again.
Even here.
Even safe.
Hakari exhales slowly through his nose.
Not sharp.
Not explosive.
Controlled.
Careful.
His hand moves from her side up to her back, spreading more firmly now, pressing her closer in a way that feels protective rather than restrictive.
“…Hey,” he says quietly.
Kirara shakes her head against him, her voice breaking again. “I know it’s not true, I know, I just—” her breath hitches, uneven, “—it still hurts.”
Hakari’s chest tightens.
“Of course it does,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it, no attempt to minimize or redirect.
Of course it hurts.
Because it’s supposed to.
Because it came from people who were supposed to love her.
His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through her hair, careful not to catch on her earrings.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he adds, softer now.
Kirara’s breath stutters again.
“…But they looked at me like I was,” she whispers.
That—
That lands harder.
Hakari closes his eyes briefly.
Because he knows that look.
Not exactly.
But enough.
He shifts slightly, guiding her so she’s more comfortably against him, his hand steady at the back of her head now, pressing her gently into the space between his shoulder and neck.
“You’re not,” he says, quieter this time, closer to her ear. “You hear me?”
Kirara nods faintly.
But she doesn’t sound convinced.
The door opens softly.
Suguru steps in.
He doesn’t speak immediately.
He takes in the scene first—the dim light, the tangled sheets, Kirara curled into Hakari, Hakari awake and alert in a way that doesn’t match the hour.
Kirara notices him before Hakari does.
Her body shifts instinctively.
Not away from Hakari—
But toward Suguru.
Her eyes fill again before she can stop it.
“S’guru-chan—” her voice cracks immediately, softer this time, but no less heavy.
Suguru crosses the room without hesitation.
Hakari moves slightly to make space, not pulling away, just adjusting, his arm still around Kirara as Suguru sits on the edge of the bed.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Suguru asks gently, his voice low and warm, the same steady tone from earlier that had held her together when she first came in.
Kirara’s composure breaks again.
Not as violently as before.
But deeper.
Quieter.
The kind of crying that doesn’t come in loud sobs but in continuous, trembling breaths.
“They said—” she starts, but the words collapse again.
Suguru doesn’t rush her.
He reaches out slowly, brushing his fingers lightly against her cheek, wiping away a tear that she hadn’t realized had fallen.
“You can take your time,” he murmurs.
Kirara shakes her head, frustrated with herself, with the way the words won’t come out properly, with the way everything feels tangled inside her.
“They said I’m not me,” she finally manages, her voice uneven, her gaze dropping. “That I don’t understand… that I’m being influenced… and that—”
She stops.
Her throat tightens.
Suguru’s expression softens further.
“And that we’re not your family,” he finishes quietly.
Kirara nods.
Tears spill again.
Suguru exhales slowly.
Not in frustration.
Not in anger.
Just… understanding.
“That must have hurt,” he says.
Kirara lets out a small, broken laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all.
“…Yeah.”
Suguru’s hand moves to the back of her head, the gesture instinctive now, familiar.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
Kirara doesn’t hesitate.
She shifts, moving out of Hakari’s hold just enough to lean forward into Suguru, her arms wrapping around him as she presses her face into his shoulder again.
Hakari watches.
He doesn’t pull her back, relieved, because she’s reaching for comfort, she’s not shutting down.
Suguru holds her carefully, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting at the back of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair.
“You are exactly who you are,” he says quietly.
Kirara’s grip tightens.
“You’re not something that needs to be corrected,” he continues, his voice steady, certain in a way that leaves no room for doubt. “You’re not something that needs to be fixed.”
Her breath shudders.
Suguru tilts his head slightly, resting it lightly against hers.
“You’re growing,” he says. “That’s not confusion. That’s not influence. That’s you.”
Kirara clutches him tighter.
“…It didn’t feel like that there,” she whispers.
“I know,” Suguru replies.
His hand moves slowly along her back again.
“But that doesn’t make it untrue.”
Hakari watches the two of them.
The way Kirara is folded into Suguru’s arms.
The way Suguru holds her—carefully, steadily, without hesitation.
There’s no tension in Hakari’s chest, only something heavier.
Gratitude.
Because he can’t always say things the way Suguru can.
Because sometimes Kirara needs this—needs someone who can hold her without breaking with her.
He shifts slightly, moving closer again, his hand finding Kirara’s back once more, resting there alongside Suguru’s.
Kirara feels both of them.
And for the first time since earlier—
The shaking eases.
Just a little.
“I wanted them to try,” she admits after a while, her voice softer now, worn from crying. “I didn’t need them to understand everything… I just wanted them to try.”
Suguru closes his eyes briefly.
“…That’s a very reasonable thing to want,” he says.
Kirara lets out a quiet breath.
“…It didn’t feel like it.”
Suguru pulls back slightly, just enough to look at her.
“It is,” he repeats, more firmly this time.
Kirara’s eyes search his. Suguru’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“You’re allowed to want to be seen by the people who raised you,” he says. “And you’re allowed to be hurt when they don’t.”
Kirara’s lips tremble.
Hakari’s hand presses slightly more firmly against her back.
“You don’t have to make excuses for them,” Suguru adds gently. “And you don’t have to minimize what they said just to make it easier to carry.”
That—
That lands.
Kirara exhales shakily.
“…Okay.”
She doesn’t fully believe it yet.
But she wants to.
And for now—
That’s enough.
Suguru presses a soft kiss to the top of her head.
“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Hakari adjusts slightly behind her, pulling her back into his arms as Suguru eases away, his hand lingering for just a second longer against her hair before he stands.
Kirara stays close.
This time, she doesn’t drift into uneasy sleep.
This time—
She rests.
Held.
Grounded.
Not alone.
And slowly, carefully, the hurt settles into something that doesn’t feel like it will swallow her whole.
Not anymore.
Because she has somewhere to come back to.
And more importantly—
People who will always meet her at the door when she does.