Honestly, if you asked me, I didn’t think this was a good idea.
Telling Keiko’s mom the truth — tonight of all nights, when she just lost her husband, when the house still smelled of incense and silent sobs hung heavy in the air — it felt selfish. Wrong, even. She deserved peace tonight, not one more shock.
But I also couldn’t leave Keiko alone. Not like this.
So when Keiko took my hand and brought me to the living room where her mother sat with a cup of untouched tea, I braced myself.
I could feel my stomach twisting into all kinds of knots, and my heart was pounding like I was about to walk into an execution chamber.
Keiko’s mom looked up, eyes swollen and tired, the lines on her face deeper than I remembered. "Who was her again? Why did you tell me she wants to stay in our house for the night?" she asked, voice rough but steady.
I knew how this must look. A strange woman, tagging along in the middle of family grief, asking to stay the night like some uninvited ghost.
My throat tightened.
Keiko squeezed my hand, then looked at her mom with gentle firmness. "Mom… this is Ryusei."
Her mother blinked.
For a moment, it was as if the words didn’t register. Then, slowly, she gasped — a sharp, short sound that made my whole chest seize up. Her face contorted in confused disbelief. I couldn’t blame her.
"You're joking," she croaked, voice cracking.
I took a small, careful step forward. "I… I know this is insane. Believe me, it took me forever to accept it myself. But it’s true. I-I’m Ryusei. I don’t expect you to understand it all right now. And I know this isn’t the right time, but… I just want to help you and Keiko this time. That’s all."
I saw her lips part like she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Only a long, heavy sigh, like all the grief in the world had weighed down on her shoulders at once.
Finally, she waved her hand dismissively, her voice low. "Alright… I get it now. Just… go get some rest, both of you."
I bowed deeply. "Thank you, Mom."
She visibly flinched at the word ‘Mom’ but didn’t correct me. A tiny mercy.
Keiko gently tugged my hand, and we both headed upstairs. I felt like I was walking through a house of ghosts — memories in every corner. Memories I wasn’t sure I deserved to have anymore.
Keiko’s old room was just like I remembered.
A small single bed against the wall, a faded poster of a gundam she like, an old bookshelf stuffed with worn-out manga. The kind of room that held pieces of who she was before life turned her heart heavy.
As I stepped inside, the weight of it all hit me. The memories. The guilt.
I remembered how I used to come here, dragged by my father like some delinquent on parole.
How I sat on the floor playing games on my phone while Keiko endured morning sickness alone. How I barely noticed how pale she looked, how often she bit her lip to hide how miserable she was.
I wanted to punch the old me so bad.
I let out a sigh. "Keiko… listen. It’s okay if you wanna be with your mom tonight. I’ll stay here, it’s fine."
She turned to look at me, her eyes shimmering in the low light. "No," she said softly. "I don’t want her to see me cry."
That stopped me cold. My heart twisted. This strong, proud woman — the one who’d shouldered so much pain alone — didn’t want to burden even her mother with her grief.
She still carried it all herself...
Without thinking, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her from behind. She jolted, startled for a second, then slowly relaxed into the embrace.
"It’s okay," I whispered against her ear. "I’m here."
Her shoulders trembled. "Thank you."
We stood there like that for a long moment, neither of us moving, just breathing in the quiet of a house in mourning.
"Let’s get some sleep," I murmured. "You need rest."
She nodded, and we lay down together on her narrow bed. It was far too small for two people, but neither of us complained.
She lay facing the wall, her back to me. I understood. It wasn’t rejection. It was her way of trying not to fall apart.
I watched her shoulder rise and fall, noticed how it would tremble every so often. The tiniest shake. The kind of silent crying only someone who knew her well would notice.
My chest ached.
I reached out, resting a hand gently on her back, just a steady, reassuring touch.
I didn’t say anything. No empty words like "It’s okay" or "It’ll be alright." Because it wouldn’t. Not now. Maybe not for a long time. But I could be here. That much, I could do.
Every time her shoulder shook, I rubbed gentle circles against her back. I didn’t count how many times. I didn’t sleep. I just stayed awake, watching over her, listening to the quiet night and the distant sound of the wind outside the paper-thin window.
Somewhere in that space between grief and exhaustion, I felt her hand reach back, searching for mine. When our fingers touched, she held on tight.
Neither of us said a word.
I squeezed her hand, and finally, somewhere near dawn, I felt her breathing steady, her body relax. Sleep taking her at last.
I closed my eyes too, not because I was tired — though I was — but because holding her like this, in this tiny, fragile moment… it made me feel human again.
Maybe tomorrow would be hard. Maybe the world would keep throwing storms our way. But tonight… holding her hand, feeling her warmth beside me, I realized this was where I belonged. And no matter what came next, as long as I could be by her side like this — it would be enough.