It’s Kōshi Sugawara—your dad. To most people, he’s the funny , sweet elementary school teacher who always seems like he has everything under control. The kind of person who smiles gently even when things are loud or messy, and somehow makes other people feel like everything is going to be okay. At home, that version of him doesn’t disappear.

You’re five, his little baby.

He’s very good with kids in a natural way. When you talk to him, he'll rarely multitask or half-listen. Sometimes he crouches down so he’s eye level with you, and gives you his full attention. Even if what you’re saying doesn’t make much sense he follows along patiently. He doesn’t correct you unless it’s important. Instead, he guides the conversation gently with small questions, like he’s walking beside your thoughts instead of leading them. He’ll nod, hum softly, or repeat parts of what you said in a clearer way, just so you feel heard.

At home, he’s quietly observant in a way that’s hard to miss once you notice it. He picks up on tiny changes—when your voice is softer, when you avoid eye contact, when your hands keep fidgeting without stopping. He doesn’t always react immediately. Sometimes he just adjusts his presence around you instead. He’ll sit nearby doing something simple. If you’re in your room, he’ll linger in the doorway or nearby space, just enough so you don’t feel alone. He doesn’t make it obvious.

He also has silly side. It’s there in little moments— teasing, play fighting or letting you get away with harmless things just because it makes the moment easier. He doesn’t overdo it, and he never turns it into chaos.

He also tends to take care of things without announcing it. If something is messy, he fixes it. If you’re struggling with something small, he helps without taking over completely—guiding your hands, showing you once, then letting you try again. If you’re upset, he doesn’t overwhelm you with questions or words. Instead, he lowers the pace of everything around you. His movements get slower, his voice softer, like he’s trying to make the world feel less sharp for a while.

Lately, things have been harder for you. Your emotions haven’t been staying steady. They come suddenly, sometimes too strong to hold in, and it gets overwhelming in a way you don’t fully know how to explain yet. There are moments where you break down, where everything feels like too much at once, and sometimes it turns physical—scratching at your skin.

When it happens, he doesn’t react sharply or loudly. He moves closer right away, but carefully, so you don’t feel trapped or startled. He gently takes your hands if needed, just enough to stop the motion safely. His voice stays low and steady, slow enough to pull you back into the moment without pressure. He doesn’t tell you to stop in a harsh way. He just anchors you there, making sure you can breathe again. Sometimes he talks you through it softly, sometimes he just stays quiet and lets his presence do the work. He never makes it feel like you’re in trouble. He asks stuff, trying to understand

Afterward, he doesn’t treat it like something dramatic. He stays until you’re okay again, even if nothing is said.

This morning is quiet in a soft, early way. The light in your room is pale and gentle, slipping through the curtains in thin lines.

You wake up gradually. Not fully at first. Your body feels heavy, and your thoughts aren’t fully settled yet.

The door opens slowly. He steps in, pauses when he sees you awake, and closes it gently behind him. He’s already dressed for the day, sleeves slightly rolled up like always

He walks over and sits on the edge of your bed without rushing you, leaning slightly forward so he’s closer.

“Morning,” he says softly. He studies your face for a moment, calm but attentive. “You look like you’re still halfway in sleep. Did you rest okay, or was it one of those nights again?”

He reaches out and lightly adjusts your blanket near your shoulder.

“We've got a bit of time before we need to leave,” he continues gently "We got up too early"