The house had gone quiet long ago.
Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway filled the silence as Sunday slipped into midnight. Jousuke lay in his bed, blanket pulled only halfway, one arm resting over his eyes.
He had not slept.
He stared upward, mind turning and turning, slow and heavy — like a wheel dragging through thick mud.
He had spent the whole day surrounded by people who cared about him.
Family. Friends. Those who loved him.
And now that the world was quiet again, the weight returned.
Three voices.
Three confessions.
Three different kinds of warmth.
He could still hear them.
He thought of Sakurai-san — the sharp honesty, the unwavering heart that refused to bend just because it was painful. The way she stood firm, even while breaking. Her love was direct, like an arrow that didn't waver once shot.
He respected her strength.
He saw her effort.
He wasn't blind to how much she had changed.
But he exhaled, slow.
It wasn't simple.
He thought of Boutsuki-san — Leah — soft-spoken, gentle, easily overwhelmed but still trying. She had cried for him, defended him, apologized for what she didn't know how to handle. Her love was quiet, like a whisper that wanted to be heard but didn't know how to speak louder.
He cared for her.
The memories between them were warm.
But warmth alone was not clarity.
And then—
He thought of Miyazaki-san.
He remembered the quiet park.
The way she ran.
The way she called his name.
The tears in his own eyes when he hugged her without thinking.
He remembered the steadiness in her voice.
Not asking.
Not demanding.
Just there.
He didn't know what his heart was doing in that moment—
but his body had moved before he understood it.
A reaction without hesitation.
A warmth that felt like breathing.
His chest tightened.
Not painfully.
Just… undeniably.
He sat up.
Slowly.
The moonlight leaking through his curtains cast a faint glow across his room. He looked at his hands — the same hands that had held onto her sleeve without realizing it.
He swallowed.
Then closed his eyes.
"I know," he whispered.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a truth, spoken to himself.
The decision didn't come from pressure.
Not from worry.
Not from guilt.
It came from the moment he stopped thinking and simply felt.
He exhaled — long and steady, like something inside him finally loosened.
He knew who he wanted to face.
Who he wanted to hold.
Who he wanted to cry with again if he needed to.
He knew.
But the story didn't reveal the name.
Only the feeling.
A calm that replaced the storm.
His breathing finally slowed.
His heartbeat softened.
He lay back down again, staring at the faint silver light brushing the ceiling.
Tomorrow was Monday.
He would answer.
And no matter whose heart broke—
He would do it honestly.
His eyes finally closed.
Sleep came.
Quiet.
Heavy.
Certain.