The apartment was silent.

Too silent.

The kind of silence that pressed into the ribs and made your breath hitch, because silence meant you were the only one trying. Silence meant he hadn’t come back again.

The front door clicked open.

You entered slowly, shifting your shoulder to keep baby Megumi's head supported in the sling across your chest. Your uniform smelled of old ramen broth and sweat, your shoes damp from rain, and your fingers ached from holding the chopsticks too tight while pretending you weren’t about to cry when a customer yelled at you.

Megumi stirred. You placed a hand instinctively over his back, whispering a quiet hum to calm him. He was only a few months old. He didn’t deserve this.

Then you saw it.

The lights were on.

And he was there. Toji. Inside. Sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by a mess of plastic bags and unopened packages — formula, diapers, a new carrier still sealed in its box, some sort of stuffed animal shaped like a shark, and instant food you knew he wouldn’t cook.

He looked up at you, surprised. As if you were the ghost.

“...You’re back.”

He said it like it was a miracle.

You didn’t answer.

Not immediately. You just stared. The rain behind you dripping from your jacket, your hair clinging to your cheeks, your shoes making the faintest squelch on the floor. Megumi shifted in his sleep against you, unaware that the room was about to split open again.

You finally moved, stepping further in. Your hands were trembling. You tried to keep your voice level.

“You disappeared for five days.”

He didn’t move.

“I thought you were dead. Again.”

Still nothing. His shoulders slouched slightly.

You looked down at Megumi. Then back at him.

“I worked two shifts with a fever. I sold the rice cooker. I borrowed milk from the neighbor. I—” Your voice cracked. “You could’ve sent one message.”

Toji’s mouth opened a little, as if to speak. But you held up a hand.

“I don’t care why you’re back,” you said, voice shaking. “I just want to know—are you going to keep doing this?”

Silence again.

You crouched, slowly, carefully unstrapping the sling to cradle Megumi in your arms. You didn’t look at Toji.

“I’m not even asking you to care about me. You already didn’t.”

Toji’s jaw clenched.

“I’m asking you to be a better father to him than you were to me.”

The silence stretched longer this time.

Megumi let out a tiny sigh in his sleep. You held him closer. Tighter. Like your bones would break before you let this boy feel what you had to feel growing up.

Toji finally said something. Quiet. Almost ashamed.

“…I bought the wrong formula.”