Chapter 46: A Cleaner Hunger

Touko Nishima did not watch people the way Rurika did.

Rurika watched to feel less alone.

Touko watched to understand where things ended.

Attention was noisy. Attention attracted witnesses. Touko had learned early that anything loud could be taken away. Compliments faded. Praise shifted. Affection was temporary, a hand resting on your head only until someone else needed it more.

Permanence was different.

Permanence did not need to be seen. It only needed to be secured.

Touko sat at the breakfast table, spine straight, hands folded neatly beside her plate. Kei was reading something on his phone, brow faintly furrowed. Yui moved between the stove and the sink, humming under her breath. Rurika sat across from Touko, stirring her tea long after the sugar had dissolved.

Touko noticed everything.

The way Rurika’s eyes lifted every time Kei shifted in his chair. The way her spoon slowed when he spoke. The way her shoulders subtly angled toward him, even when her head stayed down. It was clumsy. Transparent. Untamed.

Touko felt no jealousy. That surprised her, briefly. Jealousy was what other girls felt. Jealousy made people rash. It made them confess too early, grab too tightly, reveal what they wanted before they had secured the right to want it.

What Touko felt instead was recognition.

This was hunger. But not the wild kind. Not yet.

After breakfast, Kei left for work. The door closed. The house exhaled.

Rurika stayed frozen for a heartbeat too long, spoon hovering above her cup. Touko watched the exact moment Rurika realized Kei was gone. Her posture sagged. Her breath hitched, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

Touko was always looking for it.

“Rurika-chan,” Touko said gently, standing to collect the dishes. “You didn’t finish.”

Rurika blinked, startled. “Oh. Sorry.” She forced herself to drink the rest, grimacing at the cold tea.

Touko smiled, warm and forgiving. She took the cup from Rurika’s hands, careful not to touch her fingers. Touching would have been too much, too fast.

Later, in the quiet hours before dinner, Touko found Rurika in the living room pretending to read. The book had not moved in twenty minutes. Rurika’s eyes flicked to the door every time a car passed outside.

Touko sat beside her, leaving a polite distance.

“You’re waiting for Papa to come home,” Touko said, not as a question.

Rurika stiffened. “I— no. I was just… reading.”

Touko nodded. “Of course.”

She let the silence stretch just enough to feel heavy.

“You know,” Touko continued, voice thoughtful, “Papa likes calm people. People who don’t demand things from him.”

Rurika swallowed. “I know.”

Touko turned a page of her own book. “I used to worry I talked too much. Mama told me something helpful.”

Rurika leaned in without realizing it.

“She said,” Touko went on, “that love doesn’t disappear. But attention does. So you should never chase attention. You should make yourself necessary instead.”

Rurika stared at the page in her lap. The words sank into her slowly, like dye into water.

Necessary.

That sounded safer than wanted.

Touko glanced at her from the corner of her eye. Good. The idea had landed.

Over the next few days, Touko adjusted small things.

She mentioned, casually, that Kei didn’t like loud laughter in the mornings. She corrected Rurika’s seating once, gently, explaining that Kei preferred the chair near the window. She praised Rurika when she stayed quiet during Kei’s phone calls. She smiled when Rurika asked before speaking.

“You’re very considerate,” Touko told her. “Papa notices those things.”

Rurika flushed with pride and something like relief.

Touko never told her to stop feeling. That would have caused resistance. Instead, she gave her rules. Structure. A shape for the hunger to fit into.

Rurika began to follow Touko’s lead without realizing it.

She watched Touko before acting. She mirrored Touko’s timing. She learned when to retreat and when to remain visible. She stopped approaching Kei directly and waited instead, heart racing, hoping he would come to her.

Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t.

Each time he did, Touko saw the gratitude flicker across Rurika’s face like a bruise being pressed.

Touko felt no satisfaction in this. Satisfaction implied an ending. This was maintenance.

One evening, after Kei went to bed, Touko sat alone at her desk. Her diary lay open, but she did not write immediately. She stared at the blank page, pen hovering.

Rurika was fragile. Too obvious. Left alone, she would expose herself. Cry. Confess. Reach. And when she reached, Kei would recoil, even if kindly. Even if he blamed himself.

That would end badly.

Touko frowned slightly.

She did not dislike Rurika. Dislike was messy. Dislike wasted energy. What Touko felt was responsibility.

The house had rules. Unspoken ones. Touko had learned them the hard way. She would not let Rurika break them out of ignorance.

Finally, Touko wrote one sentence.

Guidance is kinder than correction.

She closed the diary.

In the hallway, she paused outside Rurika’s room. The door was slightly open. Rurika lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for sounds that would not come tonight.

Touko watched her for a moment, expression calm, almost tender.

She thought, with quiet certainty:

She will ruin herself if I don’t guide her.

And Touko Nishima had never allowed disorder to last long in her house.