Thursdays

Hana liked Thursdays now.

Not for the same reasons as the other days. Not because of school—even though Thursday was art class day, her favorite.

No, Thursdays were special. She liked Thursdays because Ayaka-san came.

And she was different in their house.

Not like on TV where she smiled all the time with very white teeth and bounced around a lot. Here, in their house, she was… calmer. More real. Like when Hana took off her school uniform and put on her comfy kigurumi.

Today, Hana finished early because a teacher was sick in the last period. She slipped inside the house quietly and heard voices in the living room.

Papa’s voice. Calm, steady. As always.

And Ayaka-san’s voice. But… different. Not the high-pitched one from TV. Lower. More tired.

Hana took off her shoes in the entryway, slowly, trying not to make a sound. She didn’t want to interrupt.

But she couldn’t help listening.

It was Ayaka-san speaking. Her voice sounded… sad.

Ayaka’s face slowly crumbled—like a porcelain mask cracked by the invisible weight of accumulated exhaustion. She had tried to smile when she arrived today—automatic, calibrated—but it had fallen apart minutes after she sat down on the couch.

And now she was crying. Silently, tears sliding down her cheeks without a sound, as if even crying had to be discreet, controlled.

It was the third session. And each time, the mask slipped a little more—revealing something more fragile, more true.

She wiped her eyes, took a deep breath.

“Sorry,” she whispered automatically.

“You’re human,” Takumi replied simply. “Humans cry. You don’t have to apologize for being human.”

Ayaka stared at him for a long moment, as if hearing those words for the first time in her life.

Maybe she was.

Takumi set down his tea, folded his hands on his knees. He had been thinking all week about what he needed to say today.

“Ayaka,” he began gently. “I’m going to tell you something. Not as a consultant. Just… as someone who’s lived what you’re living.”

She lifted her head slightly, attentive despite her reddened eyes.

Takumi took a long breath.

“Back then, I used to work sixteen hours a day. Sometimes more. I negotiated contracts, handled impossible schedules, smiled at crooked influential people, turned a blind eye to abuse. I told myself that if I stopped—just for a second—everything would collapse.”

Hana knew Papa had had another job before, an important one in Tokyo with famous people. But he almost never talked about it. She knew she shouldn’t be listening, but curiosity won over reason.

He paused, eyes drifting somewhere between memory and present.

“And then Naomi—my wife—was hospitalized.”

Hana’s chest tightened. She liked when Papa talked about Mom, but it always hurt a little too.

“The doctors said she had six months, maybe a year.” His voice stayed calm, but something trembled beneath. “I told myself: ‘After this contract or the next one. After.’ I told myself that after, I’d have more time. After, I could be there.”

The silence in the room grew thick and heavy.

“But she died before that after.”

Hana shut her eyes tight. She barely remembered that time—she had been so little. But she remembered the silence. Papa no longer smiling.

“That morning, when I left for work, she was sleeping. When I came back… she still hadn’t woken up.” Takumi closed his eyes briefly. “I never said goodbye. I never had my ‘after.’”

A tear rolled down Ayaka’s cheek. Then another.

“I’m not telling you this to scare you,” Takumi continued, looking right into her eyes. “I’m telling you because I learned something that day: the world doesn’t collapse when you stop. It keeps going. But if you don’t stop… you’re the one who collapses. And no one can replace you in your own life.”

Ayaka trembled now, hands clenched on her knees.

“After the funeral, I resigned. I took Hana—she was three—and I left that hell.” He smiled faintly. “Best decision of my life.”

“You never regret it?” Ayaka asked in a broken voice. “The career you could have had?”

Takumi stood, took a framed photo from the shelf. Hana at five, laughing in a park under cherry blossoms. He looked at it for a long moment.

“Not a single second.” He put the photo back. “Because I woke up every morning next to my daughter. I watched her grow. I was there. Truly there.” He paused. “Money, recognition, status… all of that is temporary. But these moments? They’re eternal.”

Hana quietly wiped her own cheeks. Now she understood why Papa quit. Why they moved. Why he was always home when she came back from school.

Silence.

Then Ayaka murmured, barely audible:

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me at my place. I’m alone.”

Hana bit her lip. No one? But Ayaka-san was famous. She always had people around her on TV shows, lots of people shouting her name, friends laughing with her…

“I know.”

Takumi leaned forward slightly. His voice was soft. Softer even than when he read bedtime stories to Hana.

“But you have yourself. And she deserves to be taken care of.”

The tears flowed freely now. Ayaka didn’t wipe them away.

Hana’s heart squeezed tight. She wanted to rush in and hug her like Papa hugged her when she was sad. But her feet stayed frozen.

“And what if… I don’t know how?”

“Then you learn. Like everyone else.”

She looked at him through her tears—and for the first time since he met her, Takumi saw something different in her eyes.

Not resignation. Not fear.

Hope. Fragile, tiny, but there.

“You think I could… have a life like yours someday? Simple. Quiet. With someone waiting for me?”

Something warm flickered inside Hana’s chest.

I would wait for her.

Takumi opened his mouth to respond—but a sound in the entryway interrupted them.

Hana.

She stood in the doorway, backpack still on her shoulders, cheeks a little red. Obviously, she’d been listening.

“Hana-chan,” Takumi said gently. “You’re home early.”

Hana nodded hard, then turned toward Ayaka.

“I would wait for you,” she declared with the absolute seriousness of an eight-year-old. “Every Thursday. And other days too, if you want.”

Ayaka blinked, surprised—then burst into a laugh mixed with tears.

“Thank you, Hana-chan.”

Hana walked in, dropped her backpack, and climbed onto the sofa next to Ayaka without hesitation.

“Do you want to see my new drawing? I made it in art class today. It’s a ninja cat protecting a princess.”

Ayaka wiped her tears, smiled—a real smile this time.

“I’d love to.”

Takumi watched the two of them—Hana babbling joyfully while Ayaka listened with genuine attention—and felt something loosen inside his chest.

He had given himself a simple mission when he accepted to work with her: help her survive this industry. Find balance. Not become another tragic statistic.

But somewhere between the first session and today, something had changed.

She wasn’t just a client anymore.

She was… someone who reminded him why he left the industry in the first place. Someone who deserved better.

Someone he wanted to see smile—truly smile—more often.

He shook his head slightly, pushing those thoughts away.

Maybe… someday.

In the taxi back to Roppongi, Ayaka watched the quiet residential streets slowly give way to the city’s loud arteries.

Her phone vibrated. Seventeen unread messages. Her manager. The label. An interview tomorrow morning at six. A shoot in the afternoon. An event in the evening.

Ayaka scrolled without really reading.

Then she took out Hana’s drawing—a ninja cat protecting a princess under a clumsy rainbow—and stared at it for a long moment.

She thought of Takumi. Of his story. Of his pain turned into wisdom.

The world doesn’t collapse when you stop.

She allowed herself—just for a second, just a fleeting instant—to imagine what it would feel like to have a life like his. Simple.

Not glory. Not millions of followers.

Just… a home where someone waited for her.

She opened her voice notes and quietly hummed a melody that came to her spontaneously.

No lyrics. Just a melody.

Soft. Fragile. Sincere.

Her voice.

Not the one they had trained her into. Not the one people expected.

Her own.

She kept singing until the taxi stopped in front of her cold, empty luxury building.

For the first time in months, she didn’t take any pills before sleeping.

She didn’t need them.

Because for the first time, she had found a lighthouse in her life.

Next Thursday.