Mio's words played over and over in my mind like a broken cassette—jammed, looping, warped. Even when silence surrounded me, her voice remained, echoing through the hollows of my chest, carving itself deeper each time.
It wasn't her quiet confession of I love you that haunted me.
It was the scream.
"If he loved you, then why did he sleep with me?!"
That question cracked something open inside me—something I didn't want to look at. It hit like a shard of ice to the heart, sharp and merciless. I stood frozen beneath the night sky, the cherry blossoms drifting above like ghosts, pale and weightless, caught in a cold spring wind. I couldn't answer her.
I didn't even try.
I turned away.
I left her there in the dark, her voice chasing me down the road until it vanished into the night—never knowing it would be the last time I'd hear it.
No… it couldn't be…
But it was.
The next time I heard her name, it was on the news.
Her body had been found. Lifeless. Cold. Surrounded by blood that didn't belong among the flowers.
They didn't show the scene, of course. Just the solemn faces. The aerial shots of the school. The tribute photos. But I didn't need the visuals. I saw it all in my mind—the red seeping across the pavement, staining everything it touched.
And even then, I couldn't look at her. I looked for him.
Papa.
I pushed through the crowd in my head, past the whispers, past the flashing lights, searching for the only thing that could keep the truth from swallowing me whole. I needed him to tell me it was a lie. I needed him to hold me and say Mio was wrong. That he loved me.
But instead, his hand struck my cheek. The sting burned hot.
And then cold.
It wasn't just the pain. It was what it meant. It was the truth I had refused to see.
That smile he gave her. The one he gave the cameras. The one he never gave me anymore.
So, Papa loves Mio…
While the world mourned their sweet, bright star, I tried to claw my way out of the nightmare. But she wouldn't leave me, not even in sleep. In my dreams, Mio came back, her face pale and wet, not with tears, but blood. Sometimes she carried a baby. Sometimes she only stared. But always, always, she whispered the same thing.
He doesn't love you, Dai-kun…
I woke every night drenched in sweat, breath ragged, clinging to sheets twisted from the panic I couldn't name. The loneliness dug deeper. Papa had vanished from my life, not physically, but emotionally. He stood beside the Horie family now, hands folded in grief, sharing a long table at a press conference lit by camera flashes. They mourned together like one happy, devastated family.
He was on TV again.
I sat alone in front of the screen, numb, watching him speak.
"Horie-san was a talented soul, despite her young age," he said, his voice steady, his performance flawless. "Her tragic loss is a great sorrow to us, and we deeply regret our failure to protect her innocent heart from the depths of depression."
I stared at his face.
Of course, Mio was special to him.
Why else would he choose her? Why else would he—
The jealousy was bitter. Immature. Childish. But it swallowed me whole.
I was just a middle school boy with a fractured heart and too many secrets. And now, the world had found a new narrative to feed on: my guilt. Whispers followed me through hallways. Journalists lurked outside the school gates, pretending to be concerned adults, only to spit out questions like knives.
Was it true?
Were you close to her?
Did you know she was in pain?
Were you the reason she—
I didn't answer. I ran.
Just like I always did.
From their questions. From Mio's last words. From the sight of her under the trees, where the blossoms no longer looked like spring.
The scandal touched everything. Even Papa.
He stood firm in front of the cameras, cold and composed.
"We wouldn't deny their closeness," he told them. "But there's no official report claiming that Morikita-kun is involved. Hence, for now, we cannot blame him for what happened to Horie-san."
To outsiders, he sounded like a father defending his son.
But I knew better.
His words were calculated. His eyes didn't look into the camera—they looked through it. And through the screen, they found me.
There was no warmth. Only blame.
Mama didn't say anything either. Not to the press. Not to me. She disappeared behind drawn curtains and slammed doors, avoiding everything with a silence that mirrored my own.
But then, one day… she looked at me. And for the first time since leaving Papa, her eyes didn't pass through me.
They saw me.