Chapter 110: The Unspoken Question

The walk home from the disastrous "research date" is a quiet, awkward affair. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the street. The chaotic energy of our saboteurs is gone, leaving just the two of us and the heavy, unspoken thing that sits between us.

Aiwa is clearly frustrated. Her one, carefully planned attempt to get answers has been a complete and total failure, thanks to my ridiculous, overprotective entourage.

"I am sorry about my friends," I say, breaking the silence. "They are… a lot."

"It is okay," she says, though she does not sound like it is okay. "They care about you."

We walk a little further, the silence stretching again. I can see her taking a deep breath, gathering the last of her courage. She knows this is her last chance.

She stops walking and turns to face me. "Rui-kun," she begins, her voice trembling slightly.

And then, before she can ask her real question, she gives up. The fear of humiliation, the fear of being wrong, is too great. She cannot bring herself to ask it directly. So she chooses another path.

She pulls out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She navigates to her photo gallery and then holds the phone out to me. On the screen is the picture from her photo album. The picture of the two of us as kids.

"Hinamata-kun," she says, her voice a fragile whisper. She is no longer using my family name; she is using my first name. "This is a very silly question. And you will probably think I am crazy." She looks up at me, her eyes wide with a desperate, hopeful plea. "But… this little boy in the picture. Does he look familiar to you at all?"

This is it. The moment of truth. My heart is hammering against my ribs. I have two choices: tell the truth and unleash a new, world-ending level of chaos into our lives, or lie and keep the fragile peace.

My brain, honed by years of surviving the Hinamata family drama, chooses self-preservation.

I take the phone and pretend to study the picture of my own seven-year-old face with a look of intense, critical concentration. "Hmm," I say, stroking my chin. "He is a serious-looking kid. Let's see. The hair is dark… but the face is a little round." I squint. "You know, he kind of looks like Kenji, maybe? No, wait, his eyes are too smart."

I hand the phone back to her, my expression a perfect mask of helpful cluelessness. "Sorry, Matsuki-san," I say with a small, apologetic shrug. "I have no idea who that is."

The light in her eyes dies. The hope that had been so bright just a moment ago is extinguished, leaving only a deep, profound disappointment. She was wrong. It was just a silly, childish fantasy.

"Oh," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Okay. I told you it was a silly question."

She puts her phone away, a look of quiet heartbreak on her face. I feel like the biggest, most colossal jerk in the entire universe. But I also feel a profound sense of relief. The crisis has been averted.

But as she is turning to leave, I cannot help myself. I have to give her something. A small, tiny breadcrumb of the truth.

"But…" I say, and she stops. "It is a really cool hero's crest he gave you." I reach out and gently, for just a second, tap the pendant at her neck. "He must have been a really great kid."

I turn and walk away, leaving her standing alone on the sidewalk, more confused, more conflicted, and more hopelessly entangled with me than ever before. The mystery is still alive, and my own role in it has just become infinitely more complicated.