POV: Haruka
The walls were pale cream, the furniture imported, the shelves lined with academic trophies and framed certificates. It was her childhood bedroom—but not quite.
Haruka sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the neatly stacked piles of graduate school brochures and application forms her father had placed on the desk. Everything was symmetrical. Everything was perfect.
And none of it felt hers.
Her fingers grazed the lacquered finish of the table as if trying to find a pulse beneath. But the wood was cold. As was the house.
The room hadn't changed all that much since she'd left for university. But she had. Or so she'd believed—until now.
Coming back here was like stepping into a version of herself that had been taxidermied and mounted. Her favorite novels had been replaced with academic journals. Her childhood sketchbooks, which she would fill with messy poetry and charcoal drawings, were nowhere to be seen. Even the old stickers on her desk had been carefully peeled off.
It was pristine. A shrine to a person she was never allowed to be.
Downstairs, her father's voice was a low murmur. Crisp. Guarded.
He was on the phone again—most likely bargaining away her future as if she were some corporate project.
"You'll submit your application to Todai's master's program by Friday," he had ordered that morning, not bothering to wait for a response. "And I want to see a draft of your research proposal by tomorrow night."
No "how are you?"
No mention of her sudden disappearance.
Just schedules. Deadlines. Expectations.
Her mother had lingered in the doorway at breakfast, silent as always, her eyes flicking toward Haruka now and then with silent worry. But she said nothing. She never did. Not when it mattered.
Haruka did not cry. She hadn't in a long time.
Instead, she did what she always did—nodded, complied, smiled where it was required.
But inside, something had started to drain away.
She had not written a line of poetry since she got back.
When she tried, the words melted. Even her diary, that former sanctuary, now felt like a stranger's voice.
She pushed away from the desk and went to the window. Tokyo lies out like a metallic sea—gleaming and vast. From this altitude, everything appeared tidy. Clean. Contained.
She opened the window a crack, and the city air came in. The wind carried the distant hum of traffic and the occasional yap of a dog, but none of it reached her. The noise failed to comfort her—it only worked to remind her of how very far she was from the one place that had ever felt solid.
Kaito's face swam into her mind.
The softness of his voice. The quiet insistence in his gaze. The way he never tried to fix her, just offered warmth, like he knew she could put herself back together if someone would only believe in her for long enough.
"If you're okay, give me a sign. I'm not giving up."
Her fingers tightened on the windowsill.
She hadn't been able to answer.
There were cameras outside. Rules. Watching eyes.
But today, something tugged at her. A whisper in her breast.
She waited until the house was quiet—her father gone to meetings, her mother in the garden with the maid—before sneaking downstairs.
She moved as she had as a child, sneaking into the kitchen after dark. Stealthy steps, ears straining to hear each creak in the floor.
At the door, she unlocked the mailbox.
It was usually empty.
But today, there was something.
A small folded square. The paper was identifiable, creased from a pocket, and handwriting was rushed but tidy.
Kaito.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
*I waited again today. I know that you're still there.
The city feels bigger from here, but I continue to hear your voice.
Even if you can't answer, I just needed you to know—
You are important.
You're not alone.*
Haruka pressed the paper to her chest.
It was heavier than it looked. As if it contained something warm. Something alive.
She closed her eyes.
For a little while, the silence wasn't suffocating.
But when she opened them again, the hallway was chillier.
She gazed at the letter.
She wanted to respond. Wanted to fold her heart into paper and send it back to him. But fear screamed louder.
Her father had her schedule full of study groups and practice interviews. Her phone was still taken away—the day she returned. Her email was being monitored. There was no freedom. Only groomed habits and invisible bars.
Even making it this far had been a gamble.
If he discovered…
Her fingers wrapped around the letter. Slowly, carefully, she tucked it into the inside pocket of her sweater, close to her heart.
She didn't know how to give anything back. She didn't even know that she could.
But this—
This paper wing from the outside world—
It reminded her that she still existed.
And that somewhere, someone still saw her.
Not the face her parents showed their friends.
Not the model student.
Not the perfect daughter.
Just… Haruka.
And in a house full of mirrors reflecting a person she didn't recognize, that was the only true thing.