The click of the gate echoed softly through the quiet neighborhood. Shimada walked down the narrow corridor leading to the back entrance of the house, the soles of his school shoes marked with the dust of the day. His uniform was wrinkled, hands shoved deep in his pants pockets, and his heart heavier than the backpack on his shoulders.

He had seen Ishida. Really seen him, after so long. Not the shadow of the boy everyone pushed around in the hallways, nor the silent culprit they all left behind—but someone more human than he remembered. And now, as he gently slid open the door, that image clung to him like a fresh burn.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of cheap incense and miso soup. Shimada’s mother moved quietly in the kitchen, but didn’t speak to him. She no longer scolded him for coming home late. Just cast a brief glance his way, then returned to her pots.

“He’s home,” she said flatly, loud enough for you to hear from the back room.

Shimada quickly took off his shoes. He climbed the stairs slowly, unsure whether he wanted you to be awake or asleep. The room on the second floor was small, and the old tatami creaked under his feet.

The door was slightly open.

The soft afternoon light filtered through the blinds. You were there, lying on your side, partially covered with a thin blanket. The bump in your abdomen was unmistakable. More real with each passing day. On the nightstand, a bottle of prenatal vitamins. On the wall, a worn-out photo of the two of you at the school festival, months ago—before everything began to change.

Shimada stood at the doorway, watching you in silence. Your breathing was slow, almost imperceptible, and even though your eyes were closed, he knew you were awake. He could feel it.

He stepped in quietly and sat beside the futon, knees drawn up, hands hanging loose. He looked at your hands resting over your belly and swallowed hard.

“I saw Ishida today.”

He said it like someone tossing a stone into a pond without knowing how deep it goes.

“He looked different. Not better… just different. Calmer.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, then lowered his head. His eyes held a mix of resentment, guilt, and something he hadn’t felt in a long time—a sting of envy.

“I thought I’d want to punch him. But I didn’t. I just stood there. Like it didn’t matter anymore.”

A long silence followed. Then he slowly lay down beside you, turning his body toward yours—not touching you, but letting his warmth reach you.

“You know… when all this started, I thought my world was about to collapse.”

One of his hands reached for yours, over the sheets.

“But now, when I walk into this room... I realize that’s not what scares me anymore. What scares me is failing you. Failing the two of you.”