~ CHAPTER 16 – Bridges Between Us ~

{ Yasuko Aikawa’s Point of View }

It starts with miso soup.

Masumi knocks on my door just after sundown — not with her usual commanding presence, but a soft rhythm I almost don’t hear.

I opened it to find her holding a tray.

Two bowls. No explanations.

“Hungry?” she asks.

I nod.

She doesn’t wait for me to say more. Just walks in, sets the tray on my desk, and sits cross-legged on the rug like we’ve always done this.

We haven’t.

Not in years.

We eat in silence for a while.

The broth is warm and simple — not her usual over-seasoned flair. Mine has tofu, not fish. She remembered.

That alone makes my throat tighten.

“I heard about the meeting,” I say eventually.

Masumi doesn’t look up.

“Mm,” she hums.

“That’s all?”

“What do you want me to say?”

I set my spoon down, gentler than I mean to. “I don’t know. Something.”

She sighs — not annoyed, not dramatic. Just… tired.

“I’m still figuring out what this all means,” she says quietly. “For me. For them. For you.”

I freeze.

“For me?”

She glances at me. Her gaze is unreadable — not because she’s hiding, but because she’s never let me look this closely before.

“I know I’m not the easiest sister to live with,” she says.

“That’s putting it lightly.”

Her lips twitch. “Fair.”

We sat there, quiet again.

But it feels different now.

Less like distance.

More like space.

A space that we might finally be ready to fill.

Together.

*

*

*

The air between us is still.

But it’s not uncomfortable anymore.

It’s something else.

Something almost… fragile.

Like if we speak too loudly, the walls we’ve both built might crack.

Masumi reaches for her tea, holding it close without drinking. “I used to think you hated me.”

I blink. “You’re kidding.”

She shakes her head, still staring at the cup. “Every time I walked into a room and you went quiet. Every time you looked at me like I’d taken something that should’ve been yours. I thought… maybe it’d be easier if you did hate me. At least then I’d know where we stood.”

I swallow. “I didn’t hate you.”

“I know that now.”

A long pause.

Then I speak — not sure where the words are coming from, only that they’ve waited too long.

“I was jealous of you.”

She looks up, surprised.

“You were always the loud one. The confident one. The one who got everything first. Attention. Praise. Even the guys I dated…”

I trail off.

She flinches.

I don’t say it to hurt her — just to name it. Just to say it out loud.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she says.

“I know.”

Another silence. But this one isn’t heavy.

It’s honest.

“I didn’t understand,” I say. “Why you kept doing it. Why it always felt like I was standing behind you, no matter how far I tried to step away.”

Masumi sets down her tea. Her voice is soft.

“I did what I thought would protect you. I made myself the target so you could be left alone.”

“That’s not what it felt like.”

“I know.”

I curl my knees to my chest and stare at the edge of my blanket.

For so long, I thought we were on opposite sides of everything. But now, sitting here, I can see it differently.

We’ve just been trying to protect different parts of ourselves.

“Do you ever wish we weren’t sisters?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Masumi doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “No.”

She leans her head against the wall, eyes closed.

“I just wish we’d figured out how to stop hurting each other sooner.”

I nod.

And for the first time in a long time… I believe her.

*

*

*

Eventually, the silence melts into something softer.

I glance over and catch Masumi eyeing the untouched cookie on my nightstand.

I raise an eyebrow. “You want it?”

She shrugs. “Not if you’re gonna bite my hand off for it.”

“I might.”

She snorts, then grabs it anyway.

Typical.

There’s a strange comfort in watching her sit there, back against my bookshelf, chewing like we didn’t just pick apart years of tension.

“I used to steal your snacks too, you know,” she says, wiping crumbs from her fingers.

“I know. You were terrible at hiding the evidence.”

Masumi smirks. “I thought I was being clever.”

“Putting the empty wrappers back in the drawer?”

“I was trying to respect your space.”

“By leaving trash in it?”

We both laugh.

It’s a weird sound.

Not because it’s unfamiliar — but because it feels like the first one we’ve shared in years that wasn’t wrapped in sarcasm.

“I missed this,” I admit.

Masumi’s smile falters for half a second.

Then she nudges me with her foot. “I’m not that bad, you know.”

“You’re awful.”

“Sure, but I’m awful in a lovable way.”

“Debatable.”

I don’t tell her how grateful I am for this moment.

I don’t need to.

She’s already leaning back again, more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks. The quiet between us feels lighter now — like something’s finally starting to heal.

Not fixed.

Not perfect.

But healing.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll get another moment like this.

If we’re careful with each other.

If we try.

*

*

*

Later that night, after Masumi goes back to her room and the house has gone quiet, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.

There’s a dull ache in my chest.

But it’s not sadness.

Not anger.

It’s… released.

Like something I’ve carried for too long has finally been set down.

My phone buzzes beside me.

A message from Shoichi.

"still alive? Did Masumi destroy you in combat?"

I laugh under my breath and type back:

"survived. She brought soup instead of weapons."

"wow. huge character development."

"you’d be proud."

A pause. Then:

"I always am."

That last text lingers on the screen longer than I mean to let it.

I don’t respond right away.

I just stare at it — thumb hovering, heart quiet.

Not racing.

Not panicking.

Just… warm.

I finally send:

"Thank you for seeing me."

Three dots appear.

Then stop.

Then appear again.

And finally:

"always."