Stepping inside and slipping off her shoes, she was greeted by the familiar silence of the house. The air was still, and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound in the quiet evening. The lights remained off, the hallway dim with the fading pink glow of the sun bleeding in through the front windows.
She walked into her room, shutting the door behind her with a gentle thud. Leaning against it, she let herself slump, her head resting lightly on the wood—until her eyes darted to the window. Her breath caught in her throat.
Hoshino's words echoed in her ears again: "I can see right into your room from mine."
She rushed to the window, heart pounding, and yanked the light curtains closed with more force than necessary. The sheer fabric trembled as they met. Still, a soft orange hue filtered through the material. Outside, the tree's shadow twisted with the movement of the wind. She stared for a moment, lost in its shape.
Sliding down beneath the windowsill, she tucked her legs to her chest. Her knees pressed against her chin as she tried to calm the storm swirling inside her head.
The day had been too much. Her thoughts were running in loops—Hoshino's voice, his smirk, the heat in her face, the humiliation, the anger, the confusion. Over and over they played, like some broken reel of memory she couldn't shut off.
The light shifted outside as the sun dipped lower. She could see it through the curtain, the peach tones slowly deepening into bruised purple. A breeze crept in through the slight gap in the window, fluttering the curtain edge against her cheek. It was cool and made her feel, somehow, lonelier.
Then the front door clicked.
Her body stiffened. She heard the shuffle of her father's shoes on the hardwood, the creak of the hallway floorboard that always groaned beneath his weight.
She glanced at the clock. Past seven.
Dinner.
She hadn't started it.
Scrambling to her feet, she caught her reflection in the small mirror atop her bookshelf. Her eyes were puffy, her expression dull. She ran her fingers under her eyes, trying to clean her face, to look normal. A few deep breaths. She plastered on a smile, even though her stomach twisted at the forced effort of it.
She opened the door just as her father grabbed a beer from the fridge and shut it with one hand.
"Papa! Welcome home!" she greeted him brightly, her voice slightly too high. "I got caught up with homework. I didn't even realize the time. Sorry—I don't have dinner ready yet."
Her father, weary and sweat-soaked from another long shift, looked at her with a tired smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes anymore.
"BearRi, it's okay," he said with a chuckle, eyes flicking to the stack of bills on the counter. "How many times do I have to tell you—school comes first."
She watched as he brushed past her, his gaze never really lingering. It stung more than she let on.
"I'll go ahead and start dinner," she offered, turning toward the fridge. "I'll call you when it's ready."
He barely turned as he disappeared into the bathroom. "We can call takeout, since it's late."
Her eyes shifted to the bills and overdue notices gathering like dead leaves by the microwave. The guilt pooled in her chest.
"No, really. It's okay," she murmured. "I need something to distract me from... homework. I've got this big report, and it's stressing me out."
"I like your cooking better anyway," he replied faintly as the bathroom door closed.
The words should've warmed her. But instead, they settled heavily on her shoulders. A compliment too easy, too routine. It didn't mean he saw her.
She moved through her usual routine—soup pot on the stove, vegetables on the cutting board. Her father eventually emerged, hair damp, face slightly less worn. He yawned, stretching.
"Bath's free when you're ready," he said, moving to the couch and flipping through channels.
She offered him a smile, faint but genuine this time. Baths were only once a week now due to lowering the cost where they could. At least she could be thankful for this small mercy.
She knew he didn't realize how important that one hot bath was for her tonight.
The sports channel roared to life. Her father cheered, pumping his fist as his team scored. She laughed softly at the sight—until he winced and groaned, grabbing at his lower back.
"Don't hurt yourself again," she teased, voice light.
He waved her off, already glued to the next play.
Her hands returned to the chicken. But her thoughts drifted back to Hoshino again—his grin, that smug gleam in his eye. The way he'd made her feel small, cornered.
Her hands moved faster. Harder. The knife sliced with too much force—
A sting.
She gasped and looked down. A clean cut along her pointer finger, deep and red, from the knuckle to the tip. Blood pooled instantly.
"Damn it..."
She ran to the sink, pressing her hand under cold water, trying to stop the bleeding. Her eyes flicked back to the cutting board—blood had already begun to slide toward the chicken.
"No, no, no..."
She called for her father, but the blare of the television drowned her out.
The blood crept further. She grabbed a napkin and reached across the counter with her uninjured hand, blocking the flow just in time. She moved the chicken, heart pounding.
In the bathroom, she washed and wrapped her finger as best she could. It throbbed, but she ignored it.
Dinner had to get done.
When she finally set the bowls on the table, she called out, "Kay, dinner's ready!"
No response.
"Hey, Papa! Dinner's ready."
Still nothing.
She walked into the living room. Her father was slumped on the couch, half-empty beer can in hand, soft snores escaping him.
Her chest tightened.
"Papa," she said softly, shaking him. "You fell asleep. Dinner's ready."
He blinked, rubbing his face. "Huh? What time is it?"
She took the can from his hand. "A little after eight. Come eat before it gets cold."
He stood, stretching—and walked right past the kitchen toward his bedroom.
She frowned. "Wait, where are you going?"
He waved her off. "I'm too tired. Pack me lunch for tomorrow, okay? I'll eat it at work."
She stood frozen in the hallway, watching the door shut behind him. The table sat waiting, the food cooling. Her heart sank.
He didn't notice. Not the bandage. Not the dinner. Not me.
She sat down and picked at her food, appetite gone.
After cleaning the kitchen, she packed her father's lunch carefully, trying not to cry. She glanced at the clock—ten.
Still needed a shower.
Still needed that bath.
She washed up quickly, her finger stinging in the water, and then reached to dip her foot into the bath.
Freezing.
She jolted back, teeth clenched. Checked the panel. Pressed the buttons. Nothing. The heater was broken.
Of course it was.
He said he'd call someone.
But he didn't.
The disappointment stung more than the cold. She redressed the bandage on her finger and went straight to her room.
She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her, not out of courtesy but habit. There was no one to disturb, not really. Her father was long asleep by now, lost to the exhaustion of a day that had likely started before sunrise and would begin again before she ever stirred from her bed. She padded across the wooden floor in her house slippers, the slight squelch of damp hair brushing her shoulders, the soft rustle of her pajamas the only signs of movement in the dim space.
The light from the hallway had cast long shadows across her floor. Now, with the door shut, those shadows deepened.
She sat down at her desk, bone-tired, the kind of fatigue that wasn't just from the body but from the soul. Her skin still felt chilled from the cold bath — not freezing, but a disappointing kind of cold. The kind that settled in, like an unshakable sadness. She reached for her phone, almost on autopilot, a mindless motion — maybe she wanted to scroll through something pointless, something light, anything to take her mind off the day. Anything to escape the tightness in her chest she hadn't had time to acknowledge until now.
But as she picked it up from her desk, it slipped.
Just a soft clatter — no dramatic crash, no sparks or snapping sounds. It fell barely half a meter, hit the floor, and landed screen-down.
She reached for it, already groaning at herself. "Come on, really?" she whispered.
She turned it over.
Cracks splintered across the screen like a spiderweb. Thin at first, but quickly, in her eyes, they grew deeper, jagged. The glass caught the light from her small desk lamp and shimmered cruelly.
And then — something in her cracked, too.
At first it was a laugh. A short breath, a snort. Not from humor — not really. But from disbelief. She laughed again, louder, covering her mouth, shoulders hunching. "Seriously?" she whispered. Her voice broke around the word. "Seriously."
Her laughter swelled — not because anything was funny, but because everything was just too much. The cracked screen felt like a metaphor served up too perfectly by the universe. The phone wasn't expensive — they couldn't afford for it to be. And now, she would need to make it work anyway. Like she always did. Like she always had.
And then the laughter broke.
A sob escaped her lips before she even realized it was happening. Her breath caught in her throat, trembled, and shattered. Her shoulders shook violently as she bent over her knees, arms wrapping around herself like she was trying to hold herself together — but she was already falling apart.
It wasn't the phone.
It wasn't that she'd cooked dinner only to eat alone.
It wasn't even the pain in her finger or Hoshina's smug expression replaying in her mind.
It was the accumulation of it all — the weight of the unspoken and the unnoticed. The invisible labor. The silence of someone who carries too much, too young.
She cried for all of it — for the way her father had taken the beer from the fridge and walked past the food she made without asking how her day was. For how he had smiled, tired and soft, but hadn't looked close enough to see the tightness behind her eyes or the way she winced when she moved her hand. For how he loved her — she knew he did — but love wasn't always loud enough to be heard over exhaustion.
She cried for the way she was always 'okay' at school. The helpful one. The dependable one. The girl who didn't need to be asked twice, who stayed behind to help clean, who didn't complain when others got breaks she never took. Because someone had to be okay. And if she wasn't, who would be?
The tears didn't stop, not for a long time. They spilled down her cheeks, hot and bitter, until they left trails on her arms where she held her face. She cried until her ribs ached from how hard she was breathing. Until her throat was raw and empty.
Eventually, her sobs quieted, not because she felt better, but because there was nothing left.
She lay down in bed, curling onto her side. Her finger throbbed faintly with the pulse of her heart — the only thing reminding her she was still here, still present. She brought her hand close, pressing the bandaged finger lightly against her chest like it was a wound that needed cradling.
Her eyes stared blankly at the wall, at the thin light filtering through the sheer curtains.
She didn't want to think anymore.
Just one night, she wished someone would see it — all of it. Not just the smile. Not just the cheery "Welcome home!" Not just the packed lunch. But her. The girl who was barely keeping it together.