The store is bright. Too bright. The kind of light meant to flatter people who already know they’re beautiful. The mirrors are polished, the racks full of silk and chiffon — expensive fabric for expensive people playing expensive games.
His brother is laughing again, slipping an arm around his fiancée’s waist. Their reflection looks perfect. Parents hovering nearby, encouraging her to take more. A new dress. A matching pair of heels. “You’re about to be a bride, take everything you want.”
They don’t even ask the price.
Hiromi folds his arms, standing slightly off to the side. It’s not his scene. It never was. But then again, she is here.
The younger sister.
She’s not loud like the rest. Doesn’t demand attention. Doesn’t insert herself into the moment. And yet somehow, her silence says more than all their voices combined.
He watches as she drifts behind a rack of dresses, hands hovering over a soft blue one. Not flashy. Just quiet and clean, like her. She looks at it the way someone looks at something they’ve already convinced themselves they can’t have.
Her fingers touch the fabric lightly. She lifts it, barely, almost shy about it.
Then comes the voice.
“That won’t look good on you.”
No warmth. No teasing. Just cold dismissal, casual cruelty wrapped in a mother’s tone. Not even a glance. She says it like a reflex.
The girl flinches. Just slightly. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. Just sets the dress back, like she never wanted it in the first place.
Hiromi frowns.
They all move on. Laughing, clapping, celebrating the bride-to-be. But his eyes don’t follow them.
They stay on her.
She hasn’t asked for anything since they arrived. No suggestions. No requests. Just trailing behind, a quiet shadow to her sister’s spotlight.
He walks to the same rack, pulls the dress from its hanger. The same one she held. Blue, soft, graceful. Simple — but something about it feels honest. She would’ve worn this without trying to impress anyone.
Good.
He walks it to the counter, sliding his card out smoothly. The cashier hesitates for a second — the price is high — but he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t care.
This isn’t about the dress.
When he walks back and holds out the bag, she looks up at him, surprised.
Her hands tremble slightly as she takes it. He notices everything — how her shoulders hesitate, how her gaze flicks between him and the floor, unsure whether to accept or retreat.
He says only what matters:
“She might think it doesn’t suit you… but I’ve been watching you since we arrived. You look best in the things you choose for yourself.”
She lowers her eyes, and there’s something in that silence that punches through his chest harder than any curse ever has.