The Breath that Finally Breathes

Jun stayed silent for a long moment, letting her words settle between them. "Is that why you're so determined to be successful? For your sister?"

"She died in my place. The least I can do is fulfill her dream." Akari smiled - melancholic, fragile - a smile heavy with surrender, destined to haunt the heart that witnessed it.

Akari's expression, voice, story, leaving a bitter feeling in Jun's chest.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was still, full.

Akari had confessed her story to Jun, her heart heavy and tangled. Yet, as the words had left her, something inside loosened. It felt like exhaling after years of holding her breath. She had never told anyone before. Silence had always been her shield, but now that she'd broken it, the truth left a strange aftertaste - part freedom, part ache.

"It wasn't your fault." Jun broke the silence, voice quiet.

"But it was because of me that-"

"It wasn't your fault." His voice firmer, his gaze meeting Akari's glassy eyes.

The tears slowly fell without Akari noticing. She didn't realize until now how much she needed to hear those words. 

Jun exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. "You've spent a long time living a lie." His voice softer than usual. "Let me help you find a way to live freely." 

There was something tender about how he said it - something that made Akari's chest ache.

Akari avoided his gaze, her voice weak. "Why would you help me?"

"I have regrets of my own." His voice steady. "I know how heavy they can be." He hesitated, then added. "Let me carry a little of that weight with you."

"I don't deserve help..."

"Maybe not." He said quietly. "But sometimes we don't get help because we deserve it. We get it because someone cares enough to offer."

Akari turned back to Jun, eyes red. "What do you want in return?"

"Nothing." His voice stern, bitter at the thought she would ask that.

Akari couldn't help but want to believe in his words. She was tired of running, but she didn't feel as though she had the right to stop. "But I can't abandon her dream..."

"Then don't. I'll find a way for you to be safe and for you to live how you want." His voice carried a resolution that Akari couldn't shake.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside their small room felt distant - only the faint hum of the city, the whisper of the wind against the glass.

Jun's gaze stayed on Akari, steady, unwavering. Akari wanted to look away but couldn't.

"You make it sound so simple..." She murmured.

Jun got up. "It's not. But it's possible." 

Akari watched him move toward the kitchen. Drawers opened and closed, followed by the soft clink of glass and metal. When he returned, he carried an ice pack and a small first aid kit.

"What's that for?" Akari questioned.

"Your neck." He said quietly, setting the items beside her. "And your hands."

Akari flinched, taken aback. "It's fine. They'll heal."

Jun knelt in front of her, his expression calm but unyielding. "You shouldn't have to get used to pain."

He gently took Akari's hands, brushing over the darkened marks where someone else's grip had been with medicine before carefully wrapping them. The care in his movements were wordless, deliberate - a silent apology for a world that hadn't been kind to her.

He then handed her the ice pack. "It'll help the redness and swelling to go down." He said gesturing to her neck.

Akari took the ice pack with a slight nod, pressing it against her skin. "By the way... How did you know I was a twin?"

Jun leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning to meet Akari's gaze. "I've heard your story before."

"What?"

He turned back to the ceiling, exhaling. "When I was new to the force, I had a mentor. A good man. Patient, thorough, kind. He always went the extra mile with every client, every case. I used to wonder why."

Jun's voice grew quieter. "One day, I finally asked him. He told me years ago, long before I joined, in a small coastal town in Okinawa where he was stationed before, a woman came to the station reporting abuse in her home. She begged for help; said she didn't feel safe and worried for her children. But no one believed her - not the neighbors, not even the officers. My mentor said he let the report slip through the cracks."

Akari froze, her grip on the ice pack tightening.

"He told me that one of the children died not long after." Jun continued. "They had to close the case due to lack of evidence. But everyone in that station knew what happened. Everyone carried the weight of that failure."

His voice roughened by the memory. "That story stayed with me. Since then, I always tried to make it a rule to be thorough, to listen, to look closer." He paused, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Little did I know I'd end up making the same mistake."

Akari absorbed his words in silence. She realized that Jun's guilt ran as deep as her own. That both of them were haunted by different versions of the same wound.

"Did you leave the police because of it?" She finally asked, her voice soft, not demanding or prying.

"Not immediately, but eventually yes." He admitted. "After that failure, my mind became so clouded that I started second guessing everything. And when your judgement wavers in that line of work, you start making more mistakes... By the time I realized how far I'd fallen, it was too late to fix anything. So, I walked away before I could do more damage."

Akari listened intently. The weight in his voice was something she recognized all too well - that quiet exhaustion that came from carrying guilt too long. She couldn't help but see herself in Jun. She started to wonder if he thought the same about her.

"Do you ever regret leaving?" She questioned, almost afraid of the answer.

"Every day." He quietly admitted. "But I also know it was for the best. I couldn't keep living a life that was slowly ruining me."

Akari's eyes lowered. "You're strong... I wish I could be more like you."

"You're strong in your own way." A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

Their eyes met, and the unspoken understanding between them stretched across the small space.