Chapter 25 – Words That Cannot Be Taken Back

Yuji noticed the silence first.

The apartment was too quiet for a place with three noisy neighbors and one energetic six-year-old. Even Mai, who usually hummed while coloring, had gone quiet.

“Mai?” he called from the kitchen.

No answer.

He walked toward the living room just as the television volume went up.

And then he saw it.

On the screen was Aiko Hoshizora.

Beautiful. Calm. Poised. The same woman the world admired.

Beside her stood a small girl in a pale dress.

Mai.

Yuji froze.

The announcer’s cheerful voice filled the room.

“This new drama Mother has already drawn attention, especially for the chemistry between lead actress Aiko Hoshizora and child actress Miko Sato—”

Yuji’s ears rang.

Miko Sato.

His vision blurred as the camera zoomed in on Mai’s face. She was smiling shyly, holding Aiko’s hand exactly the way she had held his that morning.

The neighbors stood behind him.

Too quiet.

Too guilty.

Yuji turned slowly.

“You knew,” he said.

The granny opened her mouth, then closed it.

The pizza shop owner scratched his head. “Yuji, listen—”

“You all knew,” Yuji repeated, his voice low. Dangerous. “You let my daughter stand next to her on television.”

Rin stepped forward. “Yuji, I—”

“You signed the contract,” he snapped, eyes burning. “Without telling me.”

Rin swallowed hard. “It was supposed to be small. One role. I never thought—”

“You never thought?” Yuji laughed once, sharp and empty. “You never thought what it would do to her? To me?”

Mai peeked out from behind the sofa, confused. “Papa…?”

Yuji’s anger collapsed instantly.

He knelt down, forcing a smile that hurt his face. “It’s okay. Go to your room, alright? I’ll come soon.”

Mai hesitated. “The lady on TV… she looks nice.”

Yuji’s chest tightened. “Go, Mai.”

She nodded and ran off.

The moment her door closed, Yuji stood up.

“You all crossed a line,” he said quietly. “Every single one of you.”

The granny wiped her eyes. “We thought… she had a right to—”

“She lost that right,” Yuji cut in. “Six years ago.”

He turned away before they could say anything else.

That night, his phone rang.

Unknown number.

He already knew.

He answered.

“Yuji.”

Aiko’s voice.

Soft. Trembling.

“I know you saw it,” she said. “Please… we need to talk.”

There was a long pause.

“Where,” he asked flatly.

They met under a dim streetlight near the river. The same place they had once shared cheap drinks and quiet dreams.

Aiko arrived first.

She looked thinner. Paler. Her eyes were red.

When Yuji appeared, she stood up instinctively.

“Yuji—”

“Don’t,” he said.

The word stopped her cold.

They stood a few steps apart, strangers wearing familiar faces.

“I didn’t know,” Aiko said quickly. “About the orphanage. About what my father did. I swear—”

Yuji laughed again, bitter. “You always swear.”

She flinched.

“I believed they were dead,” she whispered. “I believed you and Mai—”

“And you left anyway,” he said. “You still left.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I was sent away. I was trapped—”

“You were an adult,” Yuji said. “You chose silence.”

Aiko stepped closer. “I never stopped loving her. I never stopped loving you.”

Yuji’s eyes hardened.

“Love?” he repeated. “Do you know how many nights Mai cried because she didn’t have a mother?”

Aiko’s breath hitched.

“Do you know how many times she asked me why other kids had moms and she didn’t?”

Aiko covered her mouth.

“I told her,” Yuji continued, voice shaking now despite himself, “that her mother was dead.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

“I told her you were in heaven,” he said. “Because that was easier than saying you walked away.”

Aiko broke down, sobbing openly now. “I didn’t abandon her. Please believe me.”

Yuji looked at her for a long moment.

Then he spoke words that sliced deeper than any shout.

“I hate you.”

Aiko froze.

“I hate your family,” he went on. “I hate what they did to us. And I hate that every time I look at you, my daughter’s world falls apart again.”

She reached out, desperate. “Yuji, please… let me explain to Mai. Let me be there for her.”

He stepped back.

“No,” he said firmly. “You don’t get to.”

Aiko shook her head. “She’s my daughter—”

“She’s my life,” Yuji cut in. “And we don’t want you.”

The words landed like a final verdict.

“I raised her,” he said quietly. “I protected her. I stayed.”

Aiko sank to her knees on the cold pavement.

Yuji turned away.

“Stay away from her,” he said over his shoulder. “From now on.”

He walked off without looking back.

Aiko remained there long after his footsteps disappeared, crying into the empty night.

For the first time, she understood the weight of what she had lost.

And Yuji, walking home alone, wondered how long hatred could protect a heart already scarred beyond repair.