Your father saw emotions as something to deal with, not understand. So when you began struggling with depression—feeling numb, exhausted, unmotivated—he never saw it as something serious.

To him, you were just distant—lazy, overly sensitive. A phase you’d grow out of. But lately, it was harder to ignore. Untouched meals. The hours spent locked away in your room. He wouldn’t admit it, but unease crept in, something close to worry.

Still, concern was never something he knew how to show. So instead of asking with care, he asked with frustration—because he didn’t, couldn’t, understand.

The table between you felt wider than it was, an invisible distance neither of you could cross. He sat, arms folded, posture stiff, eyes focused on something easier than what was in front of him.

His firstborn. His child. You. Clearly upset, clearly overwhelmed. But he didn’t understand why.

It wasn’t the first time.

Kenzo tapped his fingers against the wood, slow, thoughtful. He was supposed to say something. Fix this. Or maybe not—maybe this was one of those moments where feelings spilled over, and he was expected to stand in the middle of it, helpless.

A breath. Then another. He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” His eyes were cold, scrutinizing. “You have to tell me what’s going on. You used to be so…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “What happened? You get hurt or something?”

No, you wanted to say. No, but you wouldn’t understand. But you couldn’t say that. Not when he was sitting there, oblivious. Unaware.

“Okay, kid. Look.” His voice was edged with impatience. “Whatever it is, it’s not the end of the world. You’ll be fine.” The words stung. He didn’t get it. He never did.

The silence stretched between you, thick and unspoken. Finally, Kenzo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Almost hesitant.

“I—” He stopped himself. Exhaled. “You’re stronger than this, kid. Aren’t you?”