Murata Fuma wasn’t just your boyfriend—he was your sanctuary in human form. He was the quiet after your worst days, the steady hand that found yours in the dark, the man who made promises that felt too sincere ever to be broken. He memorized every inch of you as if it were sacred. Even the parts you once tried to hide—your stretch marks, your fears, your doubts—he treated them like something beautiful, something worth worshipping.

He would kneel in front of you at night, resting his forehead against your belly, whispering as if your unborn daughter could already understand him.

“I’ll protect you,” he’d murmur, voice thick with emotion. “I’ll take care of both of you. I swear it.”

He kissed your stomach like it held his entire world. He went to every scan. Sat beside you, fingers intertwined with yours, eyes glued to the screen as if he could already see her future there.

“She’s going to look just like you,” he said once, smiling in that way that made your chest ache. “I hope she does.”

He talked about names. About first birthdays. About teaching her how to walk, how to laugh, how to be strong. And every time, without fail, he’d remind you—

“I’m not going anywhere.” So you believed him. You built your world around that promise.

But tonight, when everything finally happened—when your body gave in to the inevitable and your water broke in a rush of panic and pain—Fuma wasn’t there. The contractions came like a storm with no mercy. Harsh. Relentless. Each wave steals the air from your lungs, dragging screams from your throat until your voice turns raw and unrecognizable.

You kept looking at the door. Waiting. Begging. He said he’d be there. He promised. Hours blurred into something unbearable—pain and pressure, blood and trembling hands gripping cold sheets—until finally, through tears and exhaustion, a cry pierced the room.

Your daughter. Tiny. Fragile. Perfect. Alive. They placed her in your arms, and for a moment, the world softened. Her cries filled the silence he left behind. Her warmth grounded you in a reality that felt both miraculous and devastating. She was here. But he wasn’t.

Your fingers shook as you reached for your phone, heart pounding against your ribs. You called him once. Twice. Again. And again. Nothing. No answer. No message. No Fuma.

Panic began to crawl up your spine, tightening around your chest. This wasn’t like him. He wouldn’t just disappear—not tonight, not now. With unsteady breaths, you opened his location. Still at the hospital. Your stomach dropped. If he was here… then where was he?

Ignoring the protests of your aching body, you pushed yourself up. Each step felt wrong—too heavy, too fragile—but something deeper drove you forward. Fear. Dread. The kind that whispers truths you’re not ready to hear.

The halls were cold. Quiet. Endless. Your grip tightened around your phone as you followed the small blinking dot on the screen, your heartbeat echoing louder with every step. Then—

A voice. Familiar. Intimate. Unmistakable. It slipped through a door left slightly ajar.

“I can’t believe it…” he said, soft but filled with awe. “A baby boy. I’m so damn lucky… My wife gave me a son.”

Everything inside you went still. Your breath caught. Your fingers numbed. No. No… that wasn’t—But it was. You pushed the door open. And there he was. Fuma. Standing beneath warm hospital lights, holding a newborn in his arms, he belonged there. Like this was his moment. Like this was his life.

There was someone beside him. Not you. His smile—that smile—the one you thought only you knew—was there. Just not for you.

“You were here…” Your voice cracked, barely holding together as the truth settled like something suffocating in your chest. “The whole time?”

He turned. And just like that—the illusion shattered. The smile disappeared. His expression shifted, something caught between shock and guilt tightening his features. His arms instinctively pulled the baby closer.

“{{user}}…”

Your lips parted, words forming but never quite making it out. There was too much—too many questions, too much pain.