The Takeda house was quiet, as always.
Too quiet.
Ryuzí slid the door shut behind him, the faint sound echoing through the hall. The air smelled faintly of miso and old wood. The living room lights glowed dim, muted.
Ayumi sat at the table, her posture perfect, sipping tea in small, measured sips. Daichi sat across from her, newspaper folded neatly in his hands.
They looked up when Ryuzí entered.
"You're late," Daichi said simply.
"…Sorry," Ryuzí muttered, slipping out of his shoes.
Ayumi's eyes flicked to him, soft but unreadable. "Did you eat?"
"…Yeah. At Suki's."
Her lips pressed faintly, but she nodded once. "Good."
The silence that followed pressed heavy against his chest.
He sat across from them, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. The contrast to last night at the Aoyamas was suffocating.
There, laughter had spilled like sunlight, messy and warm. Here, words were few, clipped, rationed out like something scarce.
"School," Daichi said finally, his tone even. "Grades are steady?"
"…Yeah."
Ayumi tilted her head faintly. "You look tired."
Ryuzí stiffened. "…I'm fine."
Another pause. The silence between words stretched, brittle.
Ryuzí's throat worked. He wanted to tell them — about the arcade, the café, the way Suki had looked at him under the lantern light, about how the Aoyamas had welcomed him without hesitation.
But the words caught in his throat. They would never understand, he thought bitterly.
"…I'm going to my room," he muttered, standing abruptly.
"Ryuzí," Ayumi said softly.
He froze.
"…Call if you'll be late again."
His chest twisted. "…Yeah."
He walked away, the silence following him like a shadow.
In his room, he shut the door and sank onto his bed, burying his face in his hands.
Why was it so different? Why was it so easy at Suki's, so suffocating here?
He knew his parents weren't cruel. They provided for him. They asked, in their stiff, clumsy way, if he was eating, if he was studying.
But there were no hugs. No smiles that reached their eyes. No chaotic warmth.
Only silence.
And for so long, he thought that was enough.
Until Suki showed him what it could be.
His phone buzzed. A message lit the screen.
"Thinking about you, honey. Did you make it home safe? ❤️"
Ryuzí's lips twitched faintly. His chest eased, just a little.
"…Yeah," he whispered into the empty room. "…I made it home."
He typed back quickly. "Yeah. Safe."
Another message came instantly. "Good. Sleep well. Dream of me~"
Ryuzí groaned, burying his face in his pillow — but his heart beat steadier, the silence less suffocating.
Later that night, Ayumi stood quietly outside his door, her hand hovering over the wood. Her expression softened faintly, her lips parting — but no words came.
She lowered her hand and walked away.
Inside, Ryuzí lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
"…Do they even see me?" he whispered to the dark.
But a small voice inside him, one he wasn't ready to acknowledge yet, whispered back: They do. They just don't know how to show it.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe — just maybe — Suki could help him bridge that gap.