Family..

I apologized quietly.

It was barely more than a murmur, spoken while my mother was still ushering us inside, while Hikaru hovered at my side. 

“I’m sorry,” i said, my voice low. “I should have been here sooner.”

My father, Akio Tsukishiro didn’t say anything. He didn’t press the point or ask what I meant. He just stayed close. 

My breathing refused to slow, it hitched and stalled in my chest, he placed a steady hand on my shoulder and left it there.

My mother guided me toward the living room. “Sit for now,” she said, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to say anything else, relax for awhile.”

“I’ll make some tea,” she added quickly. “You must be cold.”

I knew I was acting strangely. The awareness sat at the back of my mind the entire time, a quiet observer noting every hesitation, every broken sentence, every moment where my reactions lagged behind what was expected. 

I knew I should reassure them by saying something normal..

I just couldn’t bring myself to do it right now.

The house wrapped around me in a sense of nostalgia as soon as I sat down.

It hadn’t changed much at all.

The couch cushions sagged the same way they always had, dipping slightly in the middle. The low table bore faint scratches from years of use, stickers that I remembered being scolded for adding. The hallway floor creaked in the exact same place near the bathroom, the sound sharp and familiar even from where I was sitting.

Even the faint smell of detergent lingered in the air, clean but comforting, layered beneath the warmth of the house itself.

Being there grounded me in a way nothing else had.

Names came back more easily.

Faces stayed where they belonged.

I didn’t have to work to remember who my parents were, or who Hikaru was to me. The recognition wasn’t fragile here. It didn’t slip away when I looked at something else. That alone eased something tight in my chest.

We spent the evening together.

Nothing special happened. No long conversations. No difficult questions. My father sat across from me, quietly watching the news, glancing up every so often to check on me without making it obvious. 

My mother moved between the kitchen and the living room, tidying things that didn’t need tidying, as if motion itself reassured her.

Hikaru did most of the talking. He always had.

He talked about school—about how his classmate tripped during P.E., about how he’d beat a second off his previous running record, about a test score that had apparently surprised everyone, including himself. He spoke quickly, jumping from one topic to the next, barely pausing for breath.

I listened more than I spoke.

When I did respond, my answers were short and encouraging. The kind of replies that didn’t invite follow-up. No one seemed to mind. Hikaru certainly didn’t. He was content with just being heard, occasionally asking things back at me to make sure I was still paying attention.

The longer I stayed there, the easier it became to remember who i had been.

My mother eventually settled into preparing dinner. 

The clatter of dishes and the aroma filled the house, the sound of simmering food—it all pressed in gently, nudging the world back into manageable proportions.

For the first time since I returned, my chest loosened. It was eased enough that breathing didn’t feel like something I had to monitor consciously. My shoulders dropped without me realizing it. The weight I’d been carrying so far is gone.

Dinner itself was simple. Rice. Soup. A few side dishes my mother had made countless times before. We ate together at the low table, the way we always had. No one commented on how little I ate, or how slowly.

Hikaru complained about not being able to play outside today in-between every bite. 

"Why!! I finished all my homework on time!"

"You can play tomorrow, chew properly when you eat." My mother, Terumi replied, smacking him on his head.

Each ordinary exchange anchored me a little more firmly in place.

Afterward, my father cleared the table while my mother wrapped the leftovers to fridge. 

Hikaru dragged his feet down the hallway, already half-asleep, but still calling me over to play. My mother made him sleep.

The house quieted.

I sat there, hands resting loosely in my lap, letting the silence settle without fear. My mother glanced at me once, then twice, as if debating whether to say something.

Instead, she brought me a cup of tea and set it down carefully in front of me.

“Drink slowly,” she said. “You don’t have to rush.”

I nodded. I took a sip, then another.

I knew things weren’t resolved. I knew this calm feeling was fragile. 

The problems I carried with me hadn’t vanished, just because I reached home.

But sitting there, surrounded by ordinary sounds and ordinary people who loved me without conditions, the future felt less overwhelming. And for the first time since everything had begun to unravel, I allowed myself to stay in that feeling... 

Not for long.. It didn't last long before the storm had come my way.