Chapter 52: Borrowed Guilt

Rurika knew something was wrong the moment her hands started shaking for no reason.

Not fear. Not panic. Something quieter. A dull nausea that lived under her ribs and never fully went away. It followed her through the house, through school, through the long hours where she pretended to read while watching Kei move from room to room.

She told herself it was stress.

Touko told her it was proof.

“You’re just not used to this kind of responsibility,” Touko said one night, voice gentle, almost bored. They were sitting on the floor of Rurika’s room. The light was low. The curtains were drawn too tightly. “Feeling sick means you understand the weight of it.”

Rurika pressed her palms together, trying to steady them. “I don’t like it,” she whispered. “She keeps apologizing. Even when she hasn’t done anything.”

Touko tilted her head. “That’s because she thinks she has.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yes.”

Touko said it without emotion. Like stating the weather.

Rurika swallowed. Her throat felt raw. “Maybe we should stop.”

Touko looked at her then. Really looked. Her eyes were calm, assessing, patient in a way that made Rurika’s stomach twist harder.

“If you stop now,” Touko said quietly, “it means you never cared.”

The words landed softly.

That was the worst part.

Rurika felt them sink in, settle somewhere deep, where they could not be argued with. Caring had become her entire identity. Caring about Kei. Caring about her place in the house. Caring enough to deserve staying.

“I do care,” Rurika said quickly. Too quickly. “I just— I feel bad.”

Touko smiled, small and reassuring. “That’s normal. Guilt doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It just means you’re involved.”

Involved.

Rurika nodded. She always nodded now.

The messages continued.

Touko never asked her to send them directly. That was important. Touko framed everything as observation, suggestion, coincidence.

“Did you notice she posted something late last night?”

“She seems anxious today. Maybe someone should tell her she’s doing fine.”

“Kei mentioned she missed another deadline. That must be hard for her.”

Rurika typed what Touko suggested, fingers cold, heart racing. Anonymous. Polite. Concerned.

Each message made her feel smaller.

Each message made it harder to stop.

At school, Rurika stopped paying attention in class. She stared at her notebook without writing. Her teachers noticed but said nothing. She had already learned that silence was safer than correction.

At home, she watched Kei more closely than ever. Not because she wanted his attention, but because she needed reassurance that what she was doing mattered.

He laughed once at dinner. Just once. Talking about something unrelated. Rurika felt relief rush through her so strongly she almost cried.

See, she told herself. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

But at night, her phone buzzed with notifications she dreaded.

Mizuki Aoyama’s messages grew shorter. Less confident. Apologetic in ways that no one had asked for.

Sorry, I’ll fix it.

I should’ve double-checked.

My mistake.

Rurika read them all.

She did not respond.

Her stomach hurt constantly now. She stopped eating breakfast. Told Yui she wasn’t hungry. Yui accepted it without question.

Touko noticed everything.

“You look tired,” Touko said one morning, tying her hair calmly in the mirror. “You should sleep more.”

“I can’t,” Rurika said. “Every time I close my eyes, I think about her.”

Touko met her gaze in the reflection. “That’s because you’re carrying something that isn’t yours.”

Rurika frowned. “What do you mean?”

Touko’s voice softened. “The guilt. It doesn’t belong to you. You just borrowed it.”

Borrowed.

The word made it sound temporary. Manageable.

“When this is over,” Touko continued, “you’ll give it back.”

Rurika wanted to believe that.

She really did.

But the nights stretched longer. Sleep came in fragments. Ten minutes here. Twenty there. She woke up with her heart racing, phone clutched in her hand, convinced she had missed something important.

She started hearing the buzz even when it didn’t come.

At work, Mizuki stopped speaking unless spoken to.

Kei noticed.

“You okay?” he asked her one afternoon.

She smiled weakly. “Yes. Sorry if I seem off.”

He frowned. “You don’t need to apologize.”

She nodded anyway.

“I know,” she said. “I just… don’t want to cause trouble.”

When Kei told Yui that night that Mizuki seemed fragile, Touko listened from the hallway.

Fragile.

That meant close to breaking.

Rurika overheard too. She felt a wave of panic, followed immediately by relief.

He noticed her, she thought.

Touko thought something else entirely.

Later, in Rurika’s room, Touko sat beside her on the bed. Close enough that Rurika could smell her shampoo. Clean. Familiar. Safe.

“You’re doing well,” Touko said. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Rurika’s eyes burned. “What if she gets hurt?”

Touko considered the question carefully. “People get hurt all the time. That doesn’t make it your fault.”

Rurika’s voice shook. “But what if I could stop it?”

Touko placed a hand over Rurika’s. Firm. Grounding.

“If you stop now,” she said again, slower this time, “it means you never cared. About Papa. About your place here. About anything.”

The words wrapped around Rurika’s chest like a bandage that was too tight.

“I care,” Rurika whispered.

“I know,” Touko said. “That’s why I trust you.”

Trust.

That was worse than pressure.

Rurika nodded.

She always nodded.

That night, she didn’t sleep at all.

She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, phone glowing dimly in her hand. Messages unread. Thoughts looping. Guilt pressing down until it felt like breathing through water.

Down the hall, Touko slept peacefully.

Because Touko wasn’t borrowing guilt.

She was assigning it.

And Rurika, exhausted and obedient, carried it willingly into the dark.