~ CHAPTER 11 – Truths in the Quiet ~

{ Yasuko Aikawa’s Point of View }

It’s been three days since the kitchen.

Since the moment I saw her not as my rival, not as the thief of every light I ever reached for, but as someone just as exhausted as me.

Three days of thinking. Rehearsing words I never say.

Tonight, I will stop rehearsing.

I knock on her door.

Not gently.

Not nervously.

Just… honestly.

There’s a pause.

Then: “Yeah?”

I open the door.

She’s at her desk, legs curled up in the chair, hair tied back messily, laptop glowing in front of her. She turns, and the expression on her face is unreadable.

Surprised, cautious… maybe afraid.

“I need to ask you something,” I say.

Masumi closes her laptop slowly. “Okay.”

I hold out the paper.

The one I found days ago — the proposal, the switch, the truth.

She stares at it like it’s about to explode.

“I found it by accident,” I add. “I wasn’t snooping.”

She doesn’t speak. Just lowers her eyes.

I wait.

And finally, she whispers, “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

Her eyes lift to mine — glassy, red-rimmed.

“Because I knew it would hurt you. And I’ve already done enough of that.”

The silence sits between us, thick and brittle.

I could yell.

I could cry.

I could ask a hundred angry questions.

But all I say is, “You were protecting me.”

Masumi nods once.

Tired. Small.

Like a kid caught doing the right thing the wrong way.

“You could’ve just told me,” I say.

“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” she says softly. “You never do.”

That lands harder than I expect.

Because… She's right.

I never gave her the chance.

I cross the room and sit on the floor beside her chair.

She blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Trying,” I say. “Not to make this worse.”

Masumi lets out a quiet, shaky laugh.

Then, to my surprise, she slides off the chair and sits beside me.

Back against the wall.

Knees drawn in.

Like we’re kids again, hiding from the world.

Only now, we’re not hiding from each other.

“I’m still mad,” I admit.

“That’s fair,” she says.

“But I’m also…” I search for the word. “Grateful.”

She turns toward me, cautious. “Really?”

I nod.

And for once, I mean it completely.

We sat there for a long time, saying nothing else.

But it’s not silent anymore.

It’s peaceful.

Or the start of it.

*

*

*

I never thought I’d say it — but sitting here next to Masumi, I feel safer than I have in years.

Not because things are fixed.

They aren’t.

But because for the first time, I’m not alone in the confusion.

She was never the villain. I see that now.

Maybe she never even wanted the spotlight I thought she stole.

Maybe all this time, she was standing between me and a weight I never saw coming.

“I used to think you hated me,” I whisper, breaking the quiet.

Masumi looks over, startled. “I never did.”

“I know,” I say. “Now.”

She nods slowly, like that single word undoes something tightly knotted inside her.

There’s a pause, then I ask, “Why didn’t you want them to choose me?”

Masumi doesn’t answer right away.

When she does, her voice is quiet but steady.

“Because you finally found someone who actually loves you. Not your family name. Not our money. You. And I couldn’t let them take that away from you.”

I stare at her.

Shoichi’s name doesn’t leave her lips — but he’s in every syllable.

And so is every boy before him who left me for her. Every time I cried and thought she took him — when really, she was trying to protect me from people who were never mine to begin with.

It feels like glass cracking inside me.

Not painful.

Just… honest.

“I don’t know how to make up for everything,” Masumi says, barely a whisper.

“I don’t want you to,” I say. “I just want to stop pretending we’re enemies.”

She nods, blinking back something that looks suspiciously like tears.

We don’t hug.

We’re not quite there yet.

But when she leans her head lightly against my shoulder, I don’t pull away.

And that feels like enough.

*

*

*

The next day, I texted Shoichi.

“Greenhouse after class?”

He replies in less than a minute.

“I’ll bring your favorite tea.”

That’s how he is.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just shows up.

The sun is dipping low when I arrive. The glass panes glow soft gold. The air inside smells like citrus and warm soil. Shoichi is already there, sitting cross-legged near the lemon tree, sketchbook beside him.

He sees me and smiles — quiet, like always.

But when I sit down, I don’t speak right away.

I just… breathe.

He waits.

Patient. Unshaken.

And somehow, that gives me the courage.

“I found something,” I say. “About Masumi.”

He tilts his head but says nothing.

“She was supposed to be forced into a marriage.”

Pause.

“Actually, no — I was.”

His expression shifts, but he still doesn't interrupt.

“She switched places with me,” I continued. “Took the deal before our parents could even mention it to me. Because she didn’t want me to get dragged into it. Not now. Not when I’m finally… happy.”

I glance at him.

He’s not shocked.

Just… quietly moved.

“You’re not mad at her anymore,” he says softly.

“I’m trying not to be.”

“You’re allowed to feel both.”

“I know. That’s what makes it hard.”

He reaches for my hand.

Not dramatically. Not to fix anything.

Just to hold it.

Just to say: I’m here.

“I used to think Masumi was the reason I never got picked,” I say.

“But maybe the truth is… I didn’t believe I was worth choosing.”

Shoichi squeezes my hand gently.

“You are,” he says. “And I’m glad she knew it too.”

And just like that, the guilt, the resentment, the ache that’s lived in me for years — it doesn’t vanish, but it shifts.

Like maybe I don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

Like maybe I never did.

*

*

*

{ Masumi Aikawa’s Point of View }

Later that night, I sat on the balcony with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, a half-finished cup of tea going cold beside me.

The city hums below. Warm lights flicker from the windows across campus. It feels like the world is breathing quieter for once.

My phone buzzes.

A message.

Tetsuya Hinami:

“Want to grab coffee tomorrow? I’ll bring the good kind this time.”

I stare at the screen.

Not because I’m surprised he texted.

But because for the first time, I feel something stir that isn’t dread or pressure.

Something closer to… warmth.

Maybe even curiosity.

I don’t reply right away.

I read the message again.

And again.

Then I type back:

“Sure. I’ll meet you by the library. Don’t be late.”

I hit send before I can overthink it.

Because I’ve spent so much of my life planning, protecting, pushing others forward.

Maybe now… I’m allowed to move too.

Even if it’s only a small step.