The rain drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the windowpane of the apartment—the shared space that, until an hour ago, had been a sanctuary. Now, the air felt thin, suffocated by the scent of lavender candles and the sharp, metallic tang of betrayal.

Hiromi Shinhata stood by the kitchen island, her hands gripped so tightly around a water glass that her knuckles had turned an ivory white. Across from her, you, her girlfriend sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, your hands trembling as they rested over your stomach—the stomach that held a secret Hiromi had only just unearthed. You were pregnant with her best friends baby.

"Say it again," Hiromi said, her voice dangerously quiet. The tremor in her tone wasn't fear; it was the vibrating frequency of a supernova.

You looked up, your eyes rimmed with red. "Hiromi, please. It wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were drinking, and he was there, and—" you tried to explain but she interrupted you

"Kenji." Hiromi spat the name out like a piece of grit. "My best friend. The man who sat at our table for three years. The man who helped me fix the radiator last month!"

Hiromi paced the length of the kitchen, her short blonde hair falling over her face, shielding her expression. Every memory of the last few months suddenly warped, the colors shifting into something sinister. The way Kenji had lingered too long during game nights just be be near you, the way you had pulled away from her touch lately—it all clicked into a jagged, painful mosaic.

"Do you love him?" Hiromi stopped, her back toward you.