Hiroki's apartment sits on the third floor of an old building tucked away in a quiet neighborhood—far from the noise and chaos of the city center. It's where he's lived for years—simple and still, just like him. And perhaps, the only place that still feels safe.
He gently lays Yuna on the bed, holding her as if she's made of glass. Her body still trembles, eyes shut tight, but the anguish on her face can't be hidden. Hiroki kneels beside her for a while, unable to let go.
The image of her frail body—and what Ryusei does to her—makes bile rise in his throat. That man—her husband—has no right. Cheating is one thing, but this? This is inhuman.
Should he call someone? Takano? Jun?
But it's long past midnight, and he can't bring himself to disturb them.
Hiroki takes a deep breath, forcing down the sickening guilt and fury clawing at his insides.
He turns away. There's no way he can sleep in the same room—not while everything still feels broken, not while she hasn't truly escaped her nightmare yet. And honestly… who is he to lie beside her? A friend? Only lovers have that right.
Back on the sofa, he doesn't sleep. His eyes remain fixed on the bedroom door, waiting—for a sound, a glance, a word... even a sigh.
But there's nothing.
The sofa, where he means to rest for just a moment, becomes a prison of self-inflicted torment. He sits in silence, drowning in the chaos of his own emotions.
He wants to go to her. To wrap his arms around her. To say it'll all be okay—that he'll protect her.
But he knows she needs time.
All he can do is wait—with guilt in his chest and pain in his bones.
Every time he replays the memory of her lying there, hurt and helpless, his heart tears further apart. He wants to hunt Ryusei down. Wants to break him in return—but he knows revenge will only bring more pain to her.
He blames himself. For not being there in time. For failing to protect her.
The silence eventually becomes unbearable. Hiroki rises and walks quietly back into the bedroom.
He stands beside the bed, watching her through the shadows. His vision blurs—tears he's never let fall now sting his eyes, heavy with everything he wants to say but can't. But he bites his lip and holds them back.
For her, he will wait.
Even if it means waiting in pain for the rest of his life.
So close, yet unreachable—waiting for someone who's still waiting for someone else.
And just as the first light of morning tries to bloom, it vanishes again.
Too late.
He has always been too late.
….
Something sticky clings to her back. No, not just her back—her entire body feels submerged in it.
Yuna sits up abruptly. She isn't sleepy—just sore all over, her stomach turning with unease. As she glances around, a chill shoots down her spine.
The space is vast, fleshy—like the inside of a living organism. Every wall is lined with pulsating muscle, veins, and tendons. It's as if she's been swallowed whole. The tissue glistens with a thick, red, viscous liquid.
Panic surges through her. She staggers to her feet. The shrill cries of infants echo from every direction, drilling into her skull.
She has no destination—just the instinct to move. Each barefoot step makes a wet, revolting squelch against the slimy surface.
Then comes the pain.
A jolt of agony shoots through her legs, paralyzing her—like being electrocuted from within. Her muscles seize, and her vision blurs. The infant cries grow louder, frenzied, pushing her further into the abyss of despair.
From the darkness below, a torrent of cloudy, translucent fluid bursts forth. It's still warm, grotesque in its familiarity. Thin strands of blood swirl within it. Yuna is swept away. She claws at the air, but all she grasps is more of that liquid. It's unmistakable. Amniotic fluid.
As she struggles, ghostly white forms dart past her, unaware or uncaring of her presence. They collide into her, again and again, knocking her off balance. The slick ground only makes it easier for her to be dragged into the depths.
Pain grips her abdomen, spreading through her core. Something monstrous is growing inside her—something desperate to tear her open from within. The cries quiet, but the agony only grows.
Drip. Drip.
A deep, murky red leaks out.
Yuna jolts awake, gasping.
Her breaths come ragged and broken. Her pillow is soaked with cold sweat—and tears. She wipes her face, her hands trembling.
Exhausted, she wants to stay in bed forever.
But this room…
It isn't hers.
Smaller than her own bedroom. The sheets are ash gray. On the wall hangs a weathered electric guitar. A tiny desk stands in the corner, cluttered with handwritten sheet music and a laptop. The space is neat, almost to a fault—sterile, and a little lonely.
Memories trickle back. She immediately recognizes it.
This is Hiroki's place.
Yuna drags herself out of bed. The noise outside the window draws her attention. She shuffles over and raises the blinds. A soft breeze drifts in.
Below, the apartment complex bustles with life.
Faded concrete walls bear the wear of time. Mold lines the edges. Balconies jut out, some adorned with potted plants, others with laundry swaying lazily in the morning light.
Children run in circles, shrieking with laughter. A boy pedals a girl in front of him. Adults gather under the shade of a weathered tree, sipping tea, chatting. A man leans against a rusty motorbike, cigarette dangling from his lips, watching the kids. A woman crouches by the steps, tending to a patch of flowers.
The vibrancy stuns Yuna. This is Hiroki's world?
Despite the liveliness outside, Hiroki has sealed himself inside this little box. Two contrasting worlds.
And yet, this old neighborhood feels warmer than the silent, towering buildings where she used to live.
As she stares out in a daze, a voice pulls her back.
"You're awake?"
She spins around and hastily lowers the blinds.
Hiroki enters, balancing a breakfast tray. She moves to meet him, but her knees buckle. He catches her just in time, setting the tray down on the bed.
"Rest. Please," he says gently, worry threaded through every word. He helps her back into bed and pushes the tray closer. "Here. Try to eat something."
Yuna stares at the tray—miso soup, steaming rice porridge, soft-boiled egg, and neatly sliced apples. All light, easy-to-digest dishes.
She rubs her cheek awkwardly and mutters, "Sorry… I'm being such a bother."
"Don't say that," he replies without blinking. "Can you eat on your own?"
"I can. Thank you..."
Hiroki watches quietly. Though reluctant, hunger finally gets the better of her. She lifts the spoon and takes a small bite. Even then, she struggles—each swallow a task, her throat hitching as she forces it down.
She looks so fragile.
Even something as simple as eating feels like a battle.
He nearly reaches out, wanting to feed her himself, but pulls back. Now isn't the time. He has no right.
The collarbone peeking from her satin dress makes him pause.
Wait. That dress... it's far too thin. She must've been freezing all night.
Hiroki rises, rifling through the wardrobe.
"Looking for something?" her voice comes faintly from behind.
"Just some clothes for you."
"I see..." She hesitates, then asks, "Did you bring my phone? My purse? Wallet?"
He keeps searching. "No. Just you. I'll call in sick for both of us today. You need rest. I'll buy whatever you need later—and no one will be able to bother you in the meantime."
He pulls out a simple white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of black pants.
Yuna blinks, still chewing her porridge. Her gaze drops. She turns away, lips pressed tightly together.
"What's wrong? Don't like them?" he asks, lowering the clothes.
She doesn't answer. Her ears turn pink.
He panics, about to put the clothes away.
"Uh—I'll find something else—"
"Hiroki," she says, trembling. "Don't... Don't get something else. J-just leave those."
"What is it? You can tell me—"
Her eyes dart shyly before settling on him. She draws in a shaky breath.
"I… I'm not wearing any underwear."
….
The cashier scans the items one by one—toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, body wash, comb, lip balm... Each beep of the scanner sounds louder in Hiroki's ears than the last.
He stands anxiously at the register, a stark contrast to the calm demeanor of the middle-aged cashier. She occasionally casts him curious glances from the corner of her eye.
Finally, her hand reaches for the item. Just as she lifts the pair of women's underwear to scan it, Hiroki panics.
"W-wait!" he stammers.
Another look from the woman—this one more pointed. Hiroki scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, looking like a child caught doing something embarrassing.
"Actually... I meant to ask—is this the right size for hips around 88 to 92 centimeters?" he mumbles, motioning with his hands in an attempt to explain.
"You mean for women or for men?" she asks in an even tone.
"W-women," Hiroki manages, trying to sound composed. "I'm looking for women's underwear."
"Then you want a medium. This one here is small," she replies matter-of-factly. "Come on, I'll help you find the right one."
She steps away from the register, leaving a few other customers in line. Hiroki follows her, flustered and overwhelmed. He has no idea how women's sizes work—or what exactly he's grabbed off the shelf. Fortunately, the cashier is helpful and surprisingly thorough. She even recommends a few other essential items women might need.
With everything purchased, Yuna now has the basic necessities to take care of herself—at least physically.
Her phone, wallet, and work bag are all left behind in the apartment she once shares with Ryusei. Returning there is out of the question. For now, she has no choice but to stay with Hiroki.
He pays for everything—clothes, shoes, toiletries. She rarely says much about it, always insisting he doesn't need to buy more and promising she'll pay him back later. But sometimes, Hiroki brings home things she never asks for. Like the time he comes back with boxes of ready-to-eat bird's nest, Korean skincare creams, and a fire-engine red lipstick. When she gives him a look, he just shrugs and says it's a gift between friends—no need to feel embarrassed, no need to repay him.
Strangely enough, the things he picks suit her. The bird's nest is surprisingly tasty and nutritious. The creams become part of her nightly routine. Even the lipstick—though bold—somehow gives her face a much-needed touch of life. It's the only cosmetic she wears when she steps outside.
The days she spends with Hiroki pass slowly, quietly—like a gentle stream between distant shores.
They live side by side, maintaining a hazy boundary between friendship and something more. Hiroki gives her the bedroom and takes the couch. He becomes her silent companion, always near when she needs him most.
Yuna sleeps late these days. When she does wake, she often feels drained, heavy. Most of her time is spent at the window, watching the world below—the noisy children, the chattering adults.
That noise, so full of life, makes her feel left behind.
In a hidden corner of her heart, Ryusei still lingers like an unhealed scar. Sometimes, tears stream down her cheeks without warning. She never lets Hiroki see. Only the grey sky outside bears witness to those quiet breakdowns.
Had she brought her phone—or anything that could connect her to Ryusei—she knows her resolve would crumble. She would have returned to that manipulative man, trapped again in the cage he built around her.
During that time, she refuses dinner, too numb to care about the hunger gnawing at her stomach. She just wants to curl up in bed and disappear.
Hiroki never scolds her. He simply brings in a tray of food, quietly feeding her spoonfuls of porridge when she can't lift a hand. Her throat burns with every swallow, but she forces it down.
At night, she wakes up screaming from her nightmares. Panicked and breathless, her eyes red with fear. Hiroki is always there first—silent, arms wrapped around her. He lets the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calm her when words can't. Sometimes, he sits by her bedside until dawn, never looking away, as though afraid that if he does, the darkness will swallow her again.
After more than a week, signs of healing finally begin to show.
In the small, unassuming apartment, a quiet kind of peace begins to grow. Yuna finds joy in Hiroki's bookshelf—lined with everything from literary classics to warm, heartfelt stories. Each day, he chooses a book he thinks she'll like and places it by her bed or at the table.
Through these books, she rediscovers a sense of calm. During meals or before bed, they talk about what they've read. Hiroki speaks in philosophical tones about the deeper meanings. Yuna, on the other hand, finds herself drawn to the small moments that touch her heart.
Bit by bit, they settle into a rhythm—two wounded souls leaning on each other.
Yuna still isn't ready to return to work, but she encourages Hiroki to go. Reluctantly, he agrees. He begins checking in with their department head, Ms. Takano, updating her on Yuna's condition. He doesn't say much, but she figures out more than he lets on.
She even suspects Ryusei has cheated. That would explain Yuna's frailty.
Learning that Yuna is staying at his place, Takano looks him square in the eye and says, "I know something's seriously wrong between those two. You're the only one still by her side. Take care of her, okay?"
Hearing that lifts some of the burden off Hiroki's shoulders. It gives him strength to keep supporting Yuna.
At his apartment, Yuna takes on the chores—cleaning, cooking, laundry. The place has always been tidy, but with her, it feels lived in. She even starts going outside. Sometimes she meets up with Takano for coffee or short walks. She isn't ready to spill everything, but those moments help her breathe easier.
One quiet night, the pale moonlight filters through thin curtains. Yuna stirs in bed. Unable to sleep, a vague sense of unease creeps over her.
She slides to the floor, letting the cold touch her skin through her thin pajamas. She curls up on her side, her face turned toward the space beneath the bed.
There, in the shadows, something catches her eye—a rectangular object, blackened with dust. Curious, she reaches for it.
It's an old cardboard box. Its lid is rough and timeworn. She hesitates, eyes flicking between the box and the dark corners of the room.
Should she open it?
Curiosity wins.
Inside is a strange collection: old CDs, music albums, faded plastic sleeves. Some discs have no labels. Others bear scrawled names: HIMrs6, Mamoru Hiroki. But one stands out—a small disc labeled forYuna in shaky handwriting.
She runs her fingers over the name, sensing it carries meaning she can't quite recall. Scanning the room, her gaze lands on an old CD player sitting quietly on the bookshelf, as if waiting.
Heart pounding, she places the disc inside and presses play.
A faint static crackles—then music begins. Soft, gentle notes, like a breeze whispering through an open window.
Standing by the porch, I watch your gentle smile,
The sunlight in your hair, like poetry for a while.
Each step you take, the skies begin to sway,
You never knew — I stood in silence, lost for what to say.
I've loved you quietly through sun and endless rain,
Through trials and storms, through joy and through the pain.
These clumsy words, I keep them deep inside,
The things I couldn't say, I sent up to the sky.
In your eyes, there's a whole and endless blue,
I'm just a drifting cloud that fades from view.
Beneath the old tree, when you softly laughed that day,
I thought to myself: Could she hear my heart play?
The world around her blurs, fading into the background—all that remains are those familiar notes and a flood of memories crashing over her like a storm tide.
It's a song she knows well—the one Hiroki used to play for her when they were still students. Somewhere, gently, his voice begins to drift in—not perfect, but warm in a way that wraps around her like a quiet promise. Soft electric guitar chords accompany him, subtle and tender.
Yuna trembles. A tightness rises in her throat, as though something deep within her is breaking free.
She lowers her head, fingers gripping the CD she's just pulled from the player.
That storm—it's back again. It looms, ready to pull her under, to carry her back to a place long buried. A place she once swore she'd never return to.
But the current is too strong.
She sinks into it, letting herself be carried—back to the past, to a golden time she's tried so hard to forget.
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