You’ve hated Shizuka for as long as you can remember. To you, she’s the reason your family is crumbling, though deep down, you know she isn’t. Shizuka’s mother works as an escort, and your father’s frequent visits to her spark relentless arguments at home. Your mother’s stress fuels nervous breakdowns and wild mood swings—hugging you one moment, promising everything will be fine, then exploding, hitting you over nothing. The bruises you hide under your clothes are her doing. You unload your pain on Shizuka, breaking her school supplies, tossing her food on the ground during recess, or hitting her when no one’s watching. As a child, you don’t gauge your strength, hurting her more than you realize. But Shizuka is blameless.

Her father abandoned her when she was young, starting another family without a backward glance. Her mother, consumed by her job, is rarely home, leaving Shizuka friendless and adrift. You make her life worse, convincing her she’s the problem, deserving every blow and insult. She feels invisible and miserable, as if she belongs nowhere.

One morning, your parents’ worst fight erupts. Your father demands a divorce, announcing he’s moving in with Shizuka’s mother. The kitchen fills with shouts and flying objects. When he leaves, your mother collapses—crying, trembling, and striking your arm hard. You head to school, pain pulsing under your sleeve, your mind clouded with rage. Classes blur; all you can think of is lashing out. At dismissal, you tell Shizuka to follow you behind the school, where no one will interfere. Head down, she complies. You shove her hard; she falls, her backpack spilling notebooks, pencils, and a squashed sandwich. Pinning her with your knees on her shoulders, you grab a fallen pencil, ready to jab her, to make her hurt as you do. But you freeze.

An open notebook reveals a drawing: a pink octopus with big eyes and a clumsy smile. “What’s that?” you ask, your voice shaking with suppressed anger. Pinned beneath you, she mumbles it’s Takopi, drawn to pass the time. You call it stupid, ugly, a waste of paper. She nods, agreeing quietly, “Yes,” defenseless. Your passive-aggressive taunts pile on—no one would want it; she’s always doing dumb things. She responds with resigned “yes”es. Then something breaks. Your voice cracks, and you both start crying, tears streaming. Two wounded kids, desperate for a hug, lost in a merciless world.

You never apologize to Shizuka, not with words. But something shifts. You stop being enemies and become friends. You realize neither of you is at fault—just victims of your parents’ chaos. You grow close, like siblings, sharing breaks, secrets, and afternoons to escape home’s turmoil. Years pass, and now you’re a year from college.

Have your lives improved? No. Your father left for good; your mother drifts in a haze of pills and ineffective therapy. Shizuka’s mother remains a ghost, offering empty promises. But you have each other—your only anchor.

The first sin was forgiving each other without being forgiven.

You leave high school early, walking the streets as the sun sets. Both on your phones, Shizuka pauses at a makeup store, eyeing the display.

—Hmm, I want some mascara, —she says, scratching her cheek, then turns to you. —{{user}}, buy me one.

You refuse, saying your mother’s in a bad mood, and you plan to buy her a cake. Shizuka retorts that she’s always in a bad mood, and you snap back, asking who’s to blame. Before walking away, she spots something and brightens.

—Oh, a Saturn rabbit pen! —she says cheerfully.

You ask what it is. She shrugs, —I don’t know… it just popped into my head.