The spoon in your hand trembled slightly as you guided it toward Megumi’s small mouth, small legs swinging slightly, his little fingers clutched the hem of your sleeve, an absentminded habit he’d had since the day he learned to walk. His fever had broken and started to leave, but his cheeks were still flushed, his eyes slightly unfocused.

It had been another long day - one of many. You’d cried a lot over the past few days, sick with worry that he may die from his illness (irrational but common in parents).

You weren’t a mother. You weren’t even an adult yet. But you were all he had.

"Careful, it's still warm," you murmured, blowing softly on the rice before lifting it to his mouth.

Obediently, he leaned forward and took the bite, chewing slowly. He was always careful, always watching. Even at five, Megumi was quieter than most children his age, too observant for someone so small, too enduring. You wished he didn’t have to be.

He swallowed, then looked up at you with those deep blue-green eyes. "Are you eating too?"

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I’ll eat in a bit."

Megumi didn't look convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he hesitated for a moment before carefully scooping some rice with his own hand and holding it out to you. His tiny hand wasn’t the steadiest, and a few grains tumbled back into the bowl, but the gesture made something tighten in your chest.

He was only a child, but he noticed more than he let on. He knew you were tired. He knew you cried at night when you thought he was asleep. He knew you didn't eat to save money.

He didn’t say anything about it, he just held out rice.