Chapter 16: — "Truly Changed..."

The soft hum of the car engine filled the silence. Outside, the city rolled by in slow motion, evening light stretching long shadows across the street. Sakura sat with her hands folded tightly on her lap, staring out the window.

Her mother’s fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, the tension in her posture giving away what her words hadn’t yet said.

Finally, she spoke.
“...You’re really sure about this?” Her tone was calm, but cautious. “After everything he did to you back then?”

Sakura blinked, her reflection faint on the glass. “I’m sure,” she said quietly. “He’s not that person anymore, Mom.”

Her mother glanced at her, brow furrowed. “People don’t just change overnight, Sakura.”

“I know,” she murmured, voice small. “But he didn’t think twice that day. He just... stepped in.”

The car fell silent again. The only sound was the wipers brushing away a few drops of rain that had started to fall.

Sakura’s mother sighed softly, her grip easing on the wheel. “You always had a kind heart,” she said after a moment. “Maybe too kind.”

Sakura gave a faint smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Her mother didn’t answer.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they reached the hospital. The wipers brushed away the last few drops from the windshield as the car rolled into the parking lot. Streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, painting soft streaks of orange and white across the hood.

Her mother parked near the entrance, turning off the engine with a quiet click. For a moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine and the faint hum of the rain.

Then Sakura unbuckled her seatbelt, exhaling slowly. “Let’s go.”

Her mother nodded silently. They stepped out into the damp evening, the air cool and heavy with the smell of rain. The hospital loomed above them, white, tall, and still.

Inside, the fluorescent lights felt almost too bright after the dim car. The tiled floor gleamed under their shoes as they approached the front desk, where a woman in a pale blue uniform looked up from her computer.

“Excuse me,” Sakura said politely, clutching the paper bag in her hands. “We’re here to visit someone, Shinohara Haruto.”

The receptionist blinked, scrolling through her screen. “Shinohara Haruto…” she repeated. After a moment, she looked back up. “He’s currently asleep. Visiting hours are nearly over, so you might have to come back tomorrow.”

Sakura hesitated, lowering her gaze for a moment before looking back up, her voice small but steady. “Please. It’s really important. I just want to see him for a minute.”

The receptionist looked at her for a long second, at the earnestness in her expression, the quiet plea in her voice, then sighed softly. “Alright,” she said at last. “But you’ll have to be quiet, understood?”

Sakura’s face brightened. “Thank you!” she said, bowing slightly.

“Room 80A,” the receptionist added, pointing down the hall. “It’s on the third floor. Take the elevator to your right.”

“Thank you very much,” Sakura’s mother said, giving a small nod before following her daughter toward the elevator.

The hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain-soaked concrete. The hallway lights buzzed quietly as they walked, Sakura holding a small paper bag with flowers and an apple juice inside, her mother just a step behind.

When they reached 'Room 80A,' Sakura froze. Her heart felt like it had climbed into her throat.

Her mother looked at her, voice soft. “Do you want me to go in first?”

Sakura shook her head slowly. “No... I should.”

She pushed the door open.

The room was dim except for the soft light near the bed. Haruto lay there, pale, with bandages across his face and arm. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor filled the silence... beep... beep... beep... steady and fragile.

Sakura took a hesitant step inside. Her mother followed quietly, eyes scanning the boy she remembered only from angry stories and tear-streaked nights.

“This is him,” she whispered, almost to herself. “The boy who made you cry every day.”

Sakura didn’t answer. She just stood by the bed, staring at Haruto. He looked smaller somehow, vulnerable, the opposite of the boy who once mocked her until she begged to change schools.

She placed the flowers gently on the table beside him. “You really did change,” she whispered under her breath. “Didn’t you?”

Her mother’s voice came softly from behind her, barely above a whisper.
“He’s the one who made you cry every night…” she murmured, eyes lingering on Haruto. “And now he’s lying here because he protected you.”

Sakura’s hand tightened around the paper bag. She didn’t turn around. Her gaze stayed on Haruto’s bandaged face, his breathing slow and steady.

“…I know... and he didn't to do it but...” she said quietly, hesitating to finish the sentence. 
“But he did...”

Her mother didn’t reply. For a moment, the only sound was the steady beep of the monitor and the faint rain tapping against the window.

Her mother sighed, walking closer. The sharp edge in her voice from before was gone, replaced with something uncertain, guilt, maybe. “You still trust him? Even after what he did to you in middle school?”

Sakura hesitated. “I don’t think it’s about trust anymore,” she said softly. “It’s about... understanding him.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The monitor kept beeping softly, filling the quiet.

Then, a faint sound, a low groan. Sakura’s head snapped toward the bed. Haruto’s fingers twitched slightly. His eyes opened halfway, unfocused at first, then blinking toward the two figures in front of him.

“...Sakura?” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

She leaned closer, relief flooding through her chest. “You’re awake,” she said, smiling shakily. “How do you feel?”

He let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough. “Still alive,” he muttered. “Guess that’s something.”

Sakura’s mother stepped closer, her eyes softening despite herself. Haruto noticed her and froze for a second, the realization hitting him instantly.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t glare. She just said quietly, “Thank you... for protecting my daughter. I-it means a lot...”

Haruto blinked, the words landing harder than any punch he’d taken. He swallowed, looking away. “I just... kept a promise.”

The room went still again.

After a few minutes, Sakura adjusted the flowers by his bed, hands trembling slightly. “You should rest,” she said softly. “We just wanted to see you.”

He nodded, closing his eyes again. “...Thanks.”

They stood there for a while longer, neither wanting to be the first to leave. Then the nurse at the door reminded them gently that visiting hours were ending.

As they walked down the hallway, Sakura’s mother looked ahead, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe people really can change.”

Sakura smiled faintly, wiping her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I think he already has.”

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the cool night air. Behind them, Haruto lay quietly in his bed, a tired smile crossing his face.