They say time heals everything.
But no one ever tells you that healing doesn't always mean forgetting.
Sometimes it means remembering — remembering until it stops hurting, and then remembering a little more because you're afraid to lose what made you feel alive.
There's a strange stillness that comes after longing —
like the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for something to return.
And in that stillness, you begin to understand:
love isn't always about grand gestures or the perfect words.
Sometimes it's the quiet waiting,
the ache that stays even when you tell yourself to move on.
That week taught me that pain has its own kind of grace.
That people can disappear — and yet, somehow, still stay.
That even in silence, there's a heartbeat that remembers.
When the rain stopped that Saturday morning,
it wasn't just the sky that cleared.
Something inside me did too —
something I didn't even know was waiting to be healed.
Because maybe love isn't about finding someone new,
but realizing how deeply someone has already changed you.
The days after that beautiful conversation with Ken still lingered softly in both Yukino and Honoka's hearts.
Every morning since then had felt warmer, lighter — like the sun itself rose just for their small world inside that train.
But that Tuesday morning, something was different.
The train's familiar rhythm played beneath the quiet chatter of commuters. Honoka sat on Yukino's lap, her small fingers clutching her bento tightly, her eyes darting to the train doors every few seconds — waiting.
Yukino brushed a hand through Honoka's short hair, smiling faintly. "He'll be here soon," she said softly. "Ken-san's train always comes right after this stop."
Honoka nodded, her little legs swinging with excitement. Momo and Ren were chatting nearby, stealing occasional glances at the sisters — Momo's grin playful, Ren's expression unreadable as ever.
The chime rang.
The doors opened.
But Ken didn't step in.
Honoka blinked, confused. "Onee-chan… maybe he missed this one?"
Yukino looked at the empty doorway, her smile faltering slightly. "Maybe. Maybe he'll come at the next stop."
The train moved again. The sound of tracks filled the silence that followed.
At the next stop — still, no Ken.
Honoka's small shoulders slumped.
Her voice trembled. "He… he didn't come."
Yukino placed her hand gently over Honoka's, forcing a soft smile. "He's probably busy today. Maybe something came up."
But even as she said it, her chest felt tight. Something about the stillness in the air told her this wasn't like Ken.
Wednesday Morning
Same train. Same seats. Same waiting.
But again — no Ken.
Honoka sat quietly this time, her bento unopened, her tiny hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn't say a word, but her silence was loud — painfully loud.
Yukino tried to distract her. "Maybe he's not feeling well. Or maybe he had to go somewhere important."
But Honoka didn't answer. Her gaze stayed fixed on the empty seat across from them, where he always sat, where his calm presence used to make the world feel safe.
Momo watched them with a soft frown. Even Ren didn't say anything this time.
When the train finally reached their stop, Yukino stood up, brushing Honoka's hair back gently. "Tomorrow, okay? He'll come tomorrow."
But her own voice cracked when she said it.
Thursday Morning
Thursday came — and went — the same way.
No Ken.
Not even a glimpse of him.
This time, Honoka didn't even ask.
She just sat there, hands on her knees, her eyes distant — like her small heart had shut itself away.
Yukino stared at her reflection in the window, and for the first time, she couldn't tell if it was her or her little sister who looked emptier.
Friday Morning
Friday morning arrived with a soft rain.
Honoka held her umbrella tightly as they stepped onto the platform, the droplets beading on her hair. She was quiet — too quiet — her eyes dull and unfocused.
They boarded the train in silence.
The seats were the same. The hum was the same. Everything looked exactly as it always did — except for the missing presence that had tied their mornings together.
When the next stop came and the doors slid open to nothing but the usual crowd, something in Honoka broke.
Her small voice cracked.
"Ken-niisan… doesn't like us anymore…"
Yukino froze. "What are you saying, Honoka?"
Tears welled up in Honoka's eyes, spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them. "He… he left us! Like Papa did! Maybe I did something wrong! Maybe he doesn't want to see me anymore!"
Her words shattered Yukino's heart. She reached forward, pulling her sister close, holding her trembling little body against her chest. "No, no, Honoka… don't say that," she whispered, her voice breaking. "He wouldn't… he wouldn't leave like that. Ken-san isn't like that."
But even as she said it, her tears began to fall — silent, hot, unstoppable.
Momo looked away, eyes glistening. Ren clenched his fists but said nothing. The entire train felt smaller, quieter — as if even Tokyo itself had paused to mourn with them.
When the station finally arrived, Yukino stood slowly, still holding Honoka close.
Her voice was a whisper.
"Maybe… our beautiful mornings are gone again."
Saturday Morning
The Saturday came, and it felt as if all color had drained out of the world.
Both sisters sat quietly on the train, their usual spark gone. Honoka's small hands rested motionless on her lap, her bento untouched. Her face was blank — too quiet for a child, too heavy for a heart that small.
Yukino sat beside her, pale and distant. The sight of her little sister's lifeless eyes tore at her chest. She tried to smile, to whisper something light, but even her words sounded hollow.
Across from them, Momo and Ren exchanged glances — even they couldn't bring themselves to tease or talk. The morning felt heavy, suffocating, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Then came the familiar sound of the next station's chime — Ken's stop.
But this time, neither sister looked up.
They didn't even turn their heads toward the door.
Not even when it slid open with its usual soft sound.
And then—
"...Konnichiwa."
A familiar voice echoed softly across the carriage.
The world seemed to pause.
Both sisters froze.
Then they looked up.
Ken stood near the door — swaying slightly — bandages wrapped around his forehead, a sling on one arm, white gauze visible beneath the collar of his shirt. He looked pale, exhausted — like he had been through hell itself. His deep blue eyes were tired, but gentle. And behind that pain was something else — regret, softness, warmth.
For a second, no one moved.
"...Ken-san?" Yukino whispered, her voice trembling.
Ken gave a weak, apologetic smile — the kind that shattered the heart. "Gomen…" he said softly, his voice quiet but full of sincerity. "I'm sorry… for making you worry."
There was silence.
And then—
Honoka's small head lifted.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Her lips parted — a tiny sound escaped her throat — and then the tears came, bursting like a flood she had held in for days.
"Ken-niisan!!!"
Her voice cracked as she jumped from her seat, running across the aisle with all the strength her little body had. She stumbled once, caught herself, and before anyone could react, she was in his arms — clutching him tightly, crying so hard that her small frame shook.
"Why did you go?" she cried into his chest. "Why did you leave me?! I waited every morning! You said you'll come! You said you'll never leave!"
Ken winced slightly from the pain of his injuries, but his good arm wrapped around her instantly, holding her close — gentle, trembling, desperate. His chin rested against her head.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling at the edges. "I didn't want to… I couldn't come… I didn't want you to see me like this."
"I don't care!" she sobbed, clutching his shirt tighter. "I don't care if you're hurt or tired! I just wanted to see you! I missed you, Ken-niisan! I missed you so much!"
Ken's body shook as if holding back tears of his own. His bandaged fingers brushed through her hair. "Honoka…" he whispered, "You've grown brave. I'm sorry… I should've told you… but I couldn't let you worry."
Then, still crying, Honoka noticed the gauze on his forehead. "You're hurt…" she hiccupped, her tiny hands trembling. She reached into her small backpack and pulled out a small cartoon bandage — one with little stars and rabbits printed on it.
"Ken-niisan…" she said softly through tears, peeling the sticker with her little fingers, "this will make you better…"
Ken blinked — stunned for a moment as the small child pressed the bandage clumsily on his cheek. Her tears were still falling, dripping onto his hand, but she smiled shakily through them. "See… now it doesn't hurt, right?"
Ken couldn't speak. His lips parted, but only a soundless breath escaped.
And then — something broke inside him.
His hand trembled as it came up to cup the back of her head gently. His eyes, usually steady and calm, shimmered — the first tears he had shown in years sliding down his face.
He smiled — faint, tired, but warm. "Yeah," he whispered, voice cracking. "It doesn't hurt anymore… Thank you, Honoka."
Yukino was already crying, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn't stop them.
Seeing him — seeing his condition, the apology in his eyes, the child's trembling hands — it was too much.
"Don't do this to my heart again, Ken-san," she said softly, her voice breaking. "Please… don't disappear like that again…"
Ken lifted his eyes toward her — their gazes meeting through the thin veil of tears.
There was understanding there. Regret. And something else. Something quiet and unnamed.
He smiled faintly — that same gentle, stoic smile that had once filled their mornings with warmth. "I won't," he said. "Not again."
Even Momo was wiping her eyes quietly, her usual teasing smile gone. Ren turned his head toward the window, jaw tight, swallowing whatever emotion threatened to escape.
The carriage was silent except for Honoka's quiet sobs and the sound of Ken's slow, steady breathing.
Yukino's eyes, still wet with tears, finally took in the full sight of him — the bandages, the faint bruises along his neck, the stiff way he moved his shoulder. Each mark looked like a story she didn't know, a night she hadn't been there for. Her chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt to breathe.
(What was I thinking…?) she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. I've been sulking for days, thinking only about myself. I didn't even stop to wonder if he was hurt, if he was okay…
Across from her, Honoka still clung tightly to Ken's waist, her little face buried in his chest, hiccuping between sobs. Ken's hand rested on her back, his movements slow and deliberate — like every touch cost him strength he didn't have, yet he still gave it willingly. He looked… relieved, but there was pain behind that calm. The kind of quiet pain that lingers long after the wounds stop bleeding.
Yukino stood up slowly, her knees weak. Momo's voice came in a whisper beside her, breaking with emotion, "Yuki… go to him."
Ren said nothing, his jaw tight, eyes averted — but his hand had curled into a fist, trembling just slightly. "He looks like he's barely holding himself together," he muttered under his breath.
Yukino stepped forward. Her breath caught halfway, but she didn't stop. She lowered herself beside him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his injured body.
Ken turned slightly, startled — his tired eyes meeting hers — but before he could speak, she reached out and gently wrapped her arms around his good arm.
Her voice cracked. "I'm so sorry…" she whispered, tears spilling freely now. "For everything… for not knowing, for not asking, for thinking you'd just left…"
Ken didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He simply turned his head, his gaze softening — that faint, quiet look that carried more comfort than words ever could. His thumb brushed against her hand, a small, tired gesture, but it said everything: It's okay.
Yukino leaned her forehead lightly against his shoulder, sobbing quietly now, her fingers gripping his sleeve as if afraid he'd vanish again.
"I'm sorry you were hurt… I'm sorry you had to go through it alone…"
Ken's breathing hitched for a moment, but his expression softened. He looked down at Honoka in his lap, then at Yukino clinging silently to his side. A small, broken smile appeared — the kind that was equal parts pain and peace.
Across the aisle, Momo covered her mouth, whispering, "Oh god, this is too much…" while Ren looked away again, muttering, "Lucky bastard… even half-dead, he still gets to be the hero."
And yet, in that fragile corner of the train, wrapped in quiet tears and the warmth of a morning that had almost been lost — something unspoken passed between them.
Three hearts, bruised but still beating, learning slowly how to hold each other without words.