The Kuroya mansion was cloaked in silence — the kind that hums like static after a thunderstorm. The storm was Haruto himself.
Riku entered his room without knocking. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the shelves.
Haruto didn't look up. He sat at his desk, his phone screen glowing faintly, the unread message from his father still there: "London. One week."
Riku's voice was low but sharp. "What are you planning now?"
Haruto gave a dry laugh. "Planning? That's a generous word. I think I'm improvising."
Riku's jaw clenched. "Don't do this, Haruto. You've done enough."
Haruto leaned back in his chair, spinning a pen between his fingers, that infuriating smirk glued to his lips. "Do what?"
"Don't play dumb," Riku snapped, taking a step closer. "You know what I mean. The dance practice, Yuki, those rumors— all of it. You think I didn't notice what you're doing to Yui?"
Haruto finally looked at him. His eyes were a storm — calm on the surface, chaos underneath."I'm not doing anything."
"Bullshit," Riku hissed. "You're creating things. You always do. You make her care, then you tear her apart for it."
Haruto exhaled slowly, tapping the pen against the desk. "That's rich coming from you, Riku. You were smiling a little too much in that dance practice today, weren't you?"
Riku's fists tightened. "You have no right—"
"No right?" Haruto interrupted, laughing coldly. "Since when do I need rights to the things I've already broken?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout could have been.
Riku's voice softened, breaking through the bitterness. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Haruto's smile faltered for half a second. Then he looked away, shrugging. "Because that's how I am."
"That's not an excuse," Riku said quietly.
"Yes," Haruto said, standing up, his tone colder now. "It is."
He walked past Riku toward the door. But before leaving, he paused — voice low, eyes half-shadowed. "Dating her and leaving her would be more fun anyway. I missed that thrill."
The words were venom — cruel, deliberate, the kind that hurts even the speaker.
Riku didn't think. His hand shot forward, gripping Haruto's collar.
"Can you just stop treating people like you?!" Riku's voice cracked with anger. "Not everyone deserves to be punished just because you can't stand being loved!"
For a moment, Haruto didn't move. Then, slowly, that same smirk returned — the one that never reached his eyes.
He pried Riku's hands off his collar. He brushed past, leaving Riku standing there — chest heaving, helpless in the echo of his footsteps.
Meanwhile…
The Yui's apartment was small, warm, and full of tiny pieces of ordinary life — the kind that tried to heal without realizing it.
When Yui opened the door after school, Masaru was there, smiling wide like always.
"Welcome home, kiddo!" he said cheerfully, holding up a paper bag. "Guess what I brought?"
Yui blinked, surprised. "You didn't have to—"
"Too late," Masaru said, dropping the bag on the table with a dramatic sigh. "I decided to spoil my adorable little sister. You're not allowed to argue."
She smiled faintly. "You always say that."
He began pulling things out one by one — chocolates, snacks, a few hair clips, and a small bracelet with silver beads that glimmered under the kitchen light.
"See? This one looked like something you'd like."
Yui froze.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed the bracelet. Silver beads, delicately carved. One of them was slightly dented, almost exactly like the bracelet Haruto had once given her.
It was almost cruel — how something so small could bring so much back.
Masaru's smile faltered as he noticed her silence. "Yui?"
Her throat tightened. The world blurred around the edges.
"I…" Her voice cracked. "It's… beautiful."
Masaru tilted his head, worried now. "Hey, you okay?"
She tried to nod, but instead, tears spilled down her cheeks — sudden, unstoppable. She gripped the bracelet tightly in her palm, as if holding onto something invisible, fragile, lost.
Her breath hitched. "I… I miss… it hurts."
Masaru didn't ask who or what. He didn't need to. He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms.
For a long moment, Yui didn't move. Then, as if something inside her finally gave way, she buried her face into his shoulder and cried.
It wasn't the quiet crying of someone holding back. It was the deep, shaking kind — the kind that came from nights of pretending, from being strong when she didn't want to be.
Masaru held her tighter, one hand on her hair, the other rubbing slow circles on her back. "Let it out," he whispered. "It's okay, Yui. It's okay."
Her sobs echoed softly in the small room — raw, honest, human.
Minutes passed. The storm eased into quiet tears. Masaru leaned down a little, speaking in that calm, brotherly tone he always used when they were kids.
"Do you remember when you were little," he said gently, "and you fell off your bike? You cried so much I thought I'd have to buy you a new sky to cheer you up."
Yui sniffled, a broken laugh escaping her lips. "You did buy me a balloon."
He smiled faintly. "Exactly. And then you stopped crying, because you said the balloon looked like a cloud."
Yui's fingers tightened around the bracelet. "That was before…"
Masaru nodded softly. "Before everything changed. I know."
Her shoulders trembled. "It's been years, Masaru. But every time I think I'm okay… something reminds me. And it all comes back."
Masaru sighed, pulling her closer again. "Grief doesn't leave, Yui. It just learns to live quietly inside us."
Yui closed her eyes, the bracelet digging into her palm.
"It's not just about Mom and Dad," she whispered. "It's everything. Every time I try to trust someone, I end up breaking again. I'm tired of being the one who hurts."
Masaru leaned back slightly, looking into her tear-streaked face. "You're not broken, Yui. You're healing. There's a difference."
She wanted to believe him. But the pain in her chest didn't feel like healing — it felt like reopening an old wound every time Haruto's name crossed her mind.
Her voice was small when she asked, "Why do people leave, even when they say they won't?"
Masaru smiled sadly. "Because they don't always know how to stay."
That answer — quiet, honest — made her tears fall again.
Masaru kissed the top of her head. "But I'm still here, okay? You always have me."
Yui nodded slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
They stayed like that for a long time — brother and sister, two people holding onto each other in a house that had seen too many empty nights.
Outside, the evening sky was painted in bruised shades of purple and gold. The world looked peaceful, but inside Yui's chest, the ache lingered — the ache of things unsaid, of moments half-lived.
When she finally pulled away, she wiped her eyes and looked at the bracelet again. It shimmered faintly under the light — a cruel reminder, a beautiful lie.
She slipped it onto her wrist.
Masaru smiled. "There. Looks perfect."
Yui nodded, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Perfect."
Back at the Kuroya mansion…
Haruto sat by the window, watching the city lights blink against the dark sky. The phone buzzed again — a message from Riku.
"You keep saying people break you first. But you're the one who never lets them hold you long enough to heal."
He stared at the words, unmoving. Then he set the phone down, leaning back in his chair, eyes closing.
In the quiet, his mind replayed everything — Yui's trembling voice, her anger, her eyes when she threw the necklace at him.
It burned. The memory, the silence after. The way her gaze had said enough.
Haruto tilted his head back, exhaling slowly. "Dating her and leaving her would be fun, huh?"
The smirk faded completely this time. He laughed once — bitterly, hollow. "I really am an idiot."
Outside, the wind rattled against the glass, carrying faint echoes of rain — or maybe it was the sound of something inside him finally cracking.
"Some people build walls to protect themselves — and then wonder why no one ever stays."