POV: Haruka
Haruka lay awake that night.
The echo of Kaito's words in her head still resonated like the lingering note of a half-forgotten melody that refused to fade. It had only taken minutes—seconds, really—but it was enough. Enough to break the stifling silence that had wrapped around her heart for months.
She lay across her bed staring up at the ceiling, its deep plasterwork casting odd shadows in the darkness. Everything was just as always: the carefully set bookshelf, the immaculate white drapes, the diploma mounts her father had hung on the walls even before she received them. Everything was there—unshaken, unchangeable.
But something inside of her was different.
She flopped onto her side, gaze drifting over to the stack of books her father had insisted she read. Books she had never chosen, dreams she had never seen. Her fingers fidgeted on their own, tracing the spines until they hit upon the tattered, blue-covered notebook wedged between a finance textbook and a preparation guide for law school.
It was a college notebook. Unused. Except for the first few pages—scribbled over, test notes, math. Then blank.
Haruka opened to the last blank page near the back, far from where anyone would look. The stillness of the house was comforting now, like a permission. And in that stillness, she picked up a pen.
Her hand hovered over the paper.
She did not know why she started writing, but only that she had to. Maybe it was the way Kaito's voice was warm and unshakeable. Maybe it was the ache in her chest when she came back from the phone booth, remembering how long it had been since she'd made one choice for herself.
At the top of the page, in messy letters, she wrote:
"If My Life Belonged to Me—"
She looked at the sentence. It was painful and freeing.
Then, slowly, one by one, she wrote:
Work at a bakery
Write poetry again
Choose my own university
Live by the sea
Wake up without fear
Watch snow fall with someone I love
Laugh until my stomach hurts
Say no, without guilt
Say yes, without fear
Live with Kaito
Her pen paused on the last one.
It was too courageous. Too large.
But she didn't erase it.
Instead, she emphasized it once, lightly. Not as assertion, but as reminder: that love wasn't so much about longing, but about choice. And being chosen.
She leaned back, letting the ink set.
Her list had been little. No defiance, no escape plans, no revolutions. Simply small, honest gestures. Gestures she had swallowed and spat up and swallowed once more during all the little girl years she'd spent too aware. Gesture she'd stowed away for so long now under perfection and obedience.
Her gaze drifted across to the window. Beyond that, the world was still draped in shadows. And she did not feel terrified.
For the first time in a long, long time, she felt—awake.
There was still so much beyond her control. Her father's expectations. The cameras in the hallway. Her mother's silence. The future already planned out for her by others without permission.
But this list—this little page hidden in an old notebook—was hers.
And no one could take it away.
She folded it once, twice, stuffing it into her coat pocket. Not because anyone would find it, but so she could keep it close. Like a compass pointing her to the life she had never known.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted her.
"Haruka?" A gentle voice call from her mother. "Are you awake?"
She shoved the notebook under her cover. "Yes."
The door was ajar. Her mother stood there in her pajamas, with bleary eyes but a gentle expression. Not icy. Not furious.
"I heard you around," she said. "Is all right?"
Haruka hesitated. "I just. couldn't sleep."
There was a silence. Then her mother nodded. "I see." She started to turn, then stood still. "You always were a midnight thinker. Even when you were young."
The door closed softly, and Haruka stood there for another moment, letting the memory catch up.
A night thinker.
She liked that.
The morning after, her father was already sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper, a plate of neatly cut fruit in front of him. Her mother poured coffee with slippery precision, eyes never quite meeting anyone else's.
Haruka slumped into her chair, eyes dead, pretending that everything was okay.
Because it was. But it wasn't.
Her fingers brushed the paper still in her pocket.
She didn't have to run today. Or scream. Or fall down.
She just had to take one small step.
And that began with recalling what freedom tasted like—even if it was only ink on paper for now.