Yuko's fingers stilled. For a moment, I thought she might not answer. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine with a raw honesty that made my chest tighten.
"It's not just hard. It's… complicated. There are things she's done, things she's said, that I can't just forget. And I won't." Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it, something fragile. "So if you're worried about me telling her anything—about you, don't be. I don't talk to her. I won't."
The weight of Yuko's words pressed down on the room like a storm about to break. It wasn't just reassurance—it was a vow, sharp and unyielding, forged in years of silence and pain. Her voice carried the finality of someone who had long since drawn their lines in the sand, who had built walls not out of spite, but survival.
"Sister Yuko—" I started, but she cut me off with a sharp shake of her head, her dark eyes flashing with something fierce and unspoken.
