Yuna's Journal
Month 5
It is early morning. On the balcony, Hiroki gently places his hand on my belly and then pauses.
"I think… something just moved," he whispers.
I blink, confused. But then his hand tightens ever so slightly.
There it is again—a faint kick, awkward and soft, yet so alive.
He smiles—really smiles—for the first time in what feels like forever. His eyes sparkle like sunlight piercing through clouds.
"Is that you saying hi to Dad?" he murmurs, lowering his head. "I'm right here."
From that day on, every morning begins the same way: a soft greeting, a silly little story, or a quiet song—just to feel that tiny kick again.
Month 7
My belly has grown round and full. My body no longer feels as fragile as before.
My skin has regained its color, my hair is smoother, and my eyes look clearer. I owe that to Hiroki—always by my side.
Still, moving around becomes a challenge. I often limp my way down the hallway, sometimes pausing on the stairs, breathless.
Takano-san visits often to help. She teaches me breathing techniques, gentle stretches, how to walk properly again. I sweat easily now. I tire quickly. But I keep trying.
Because deep down, I know—this baby is trying too.
If my child can keep fighting, so can I.
Month 9
An autumn night. The wind howls.
I sit by the window, holding my belly, lost in a strange tangle of emotions.
Anticipation. Panic.
Fear. Hope.
With tears brimming in my eyes, I say, "I don't think I'm ready…"
Hiroki kneels before me, resting his forehead on my belly.
"Ready or not," he smiles gently, "our baby is coming."
And I break down.
He doesn't wipe my tears. He simply lets me cry. Then he kisses them, one by one, before holding my hand.
The hospital bag is already packed.
Takano is with us. Shimaki's car waits outside.
It's time.
A whole new world is about to be born.
….
Labor Room – 2:43 AM
The hospital hallway is sterile, suffocating in its silence.
Hiroki sits on a hard plastic bench, head in hands, baby supplies scattered at his feet.
Every scream from the delivery room cuts through him like a blade.
Takano paces restlessly—calling doctors, nurses, texting, calling again, then standing still, trembling.
Everyone is trembling.
"Still not yet…" she murmurs, red-eyed.
Each unanswered ring on the phone squeezes Hiroki's chest tighter.
He recalls what Yuna says just the day before:
"Don't call my parents. And don't let Ryusei know. I don't want any of them."
Her voice has been so drained, so weary, like she is clinging to her last thread of hope.
That thread… is him.
Labor Room – 3:54 AM
A newborn's cry pierces the cold air.
A doctor steps out. "Congratulations—it's a girl, healthy."
The words feel like water in a desert… yet they catch in Hiroki's throat.
He stumbles into the room. It's blinding white. Chilling.
The infant is tiny and red, still trembling as if unsure how she gets here. They place her in his arms. Hiroki holds her.
He pats her gently, but his hands are shaking.
"Shhh… Daddy's here. Daddy's right here, sweetheart," he whispers, voice hoarse.
But the joy lasts only seconds.
Yuna lies on the bed, eyes wide open. Blank.
Not crying. Not moving.
Pale and hollow—as if life has drained from her completely.
Takano rushes in.
"Yuna? Can you hear me?"
She raises her voice.
"Yuna, look at your baby! Hold her!"
The doctor nods. Hiroki places the baby on her chest.
By instinct, Yuna's arms cradle the child. The baby latches and begins to nurse.
But Yuna's eyes don't change. No spark. No tears.
Only emptiness.
A living body, holding a life that has just begun.
Takano gently lifts the baby after she finishes feeding. She cradles the little girl, humming softly through her own sobs.
The baby's cries fade as she leaves the room.
Hiroki holds Yuna's hand. It's cold. Limp.
"Yuna… please say something… please don't scare me…"
No reply. Only the frantic beating of his own heart.
He has never felt more helpless.
Inside Yuna's Mind
Somewhere in the dark…
Her body feels like it's falling apart. Eyes shut, mind sinking into shadow.
She drifts through a void. Still in pain, yet oddly weightless.
A distant voice calls out:
"Mommy, when I grow up… I'll be a superhero!"
It echoes from far away—maybe from long ago.
A dream, smelling of soft fabrics and soapberry leaves. Tasting like sweet, slightly bitter tea. This is home.
A younger Yuna hides inside a laundry basket, buried like a little mole. Her mother cooks her favorite miso soup.
"Stop daydreaming, you little rascal. You? A superhero?"
"I'll fly and protect you, and the whole Earth too!" she beams. "I wanna grow big and strong like this!"
"Girls don't need muscles," her mom laughs. "They just need to study, cook, and live like princesses."
"Then who'll be the superhero, Mama?"
"Go find them. Life's still long."
A hero.
A protector.
Little Yuna once dreams of being strong—or meeting someone strong enough to shield her.
She thinks she has found that safe place.
But now, her life feels like a tragedy, where the main character suffers most… and the ending is just pain.
________________________________________
Memory: The Phone Call
"Mama…"
She chokes on the word. Her hand trembles around the phone.
"Yuna? What's wrong? Talk to me!"
Her mother's voice floods through the line. Familiar. Real.
She cries without knowing why—maybe because this voice still means home.
Her mom keeps asking, frantic. But Yuna barely manages to speak.
She just wants to hear that voice. Even if it scolds her.
She presses the phone to her cheek.
"…Ryusei and I… we're divorced."
A long pause. Cold.
"…What? Say that again, Yuna?!"
The yelling comes, fast and furious.
She sits still, letting every harsh word fall like burning rain.
"You've disgraced the family! Can't even keep a husband? Do you have any idea—"
"…I'm pregnant."
She cuts in. Not out of bravery. But because she is tired. Too tired to care anymore.
Silence. Then another storm.
Words like meteors, crashing down.
She bites her lip till it bleeds. Doesn't fight back. Doesn't speak.
She just listens. Because what she needs more than anything…
…is to hear her mother's voice.
A faint whisper brushes past her ear, like a breeze.
"Wake up, Yuna."
She shivers.
That isn't her mother's voice.
It's a man's.
Ryusei?
Her heart clenches. No—
It can't be him.
And if it is… please, just go.
Leave her in peace. Leave her the way he always had—abandoning her in pain.
But then—
The voice comes again.
Warm. Deep. Rich. Like a lullaby humming through the winter cold:
"And when the shadows veil the skies
She carves the stars in darkest nights
You're my Wonder Woman
Turns her pain into a song
Like a flame that glows in silence
She's been brave her whole life long
No shield, no magic potion
Just love that makes her strong
She's my wonder
My Wonder Woman…"
Her eyes flutter open. Everything is still hazy, as if seen through fog.
No scent of antiseptic. No blinding hospital lights.
This is her bedroom.
At her bedside, someone sits quietly, running fingers through her hair as she blinks up.
Her first instinct isn't to ask who. It isn't even why. It is—the baby…?
She shoots up. Pain surges through her like something ripping her in half. But a firm hand pushes her gently back down.
"Don't move yet," he says softly. "You're not ready to get up."
The warm glow of a bedside lamp lights one side of his face—dark circles, rumpled hair, a wrinkled shirt…
But his gaze is still the same—gentle, unwavering.
"She's sleeping in the crib," he continues in a hushed voice. "Takano-san spent hours getting her down."
Yuna tries to sit again. "But… she needs to feed…"
Hiroki slides onto the edge of the bed, slips a hand behind her neck, and eases her back down.
"The doctor said tomorrow morning. You just need rest tonight. It's late, okay?"
She bites her cracked lips and turns away in frustration.
Then, in the corner—she sees it.
A small wooden crib.
Inside lies a tiny baby, round and delicate, fast asleep.
Her tiny fingers cling to the edge of the blanket.
Yuna's face softens. Her eyes grow misty.
My baby… Thank God she's safe.
She breathes in, but what wells up isn't air—It is tears.
She wants to hold her child. To feel her. To know this baby is real.
The little girl stirs, lets out a soft "ehh ehh", eyes fluttering.
Hiroki stands, crosses the room, and gently pats her back in rhythm.
Even now. Even exhausted. He tries so hard to stay composed.
Yuna stares at his back.
Then, unable to bear it. She throws the covers aside and rushes to him. Her frail arms wrap around his waist from behind, breath hot and desperate.
"Yuna—?"
He turns. She rises onto her toes, cups his cheeks, and kisses him—frantic, hungry, broken.
She doesn't stop. Her hands fumble, pulling open buttons, reaching for more—
"STOP!"
His voice booms like a shockwave.
He grabs her wrists and pushes her back onto the bed.
"Yuna, stop," he says, voice breaking. "You just gave birth. You're exhausted—don't you see that?!"
She sits, fists clenching the bedsheets, tears spilling. "I just wanted to touch someone…", her voice cracks."I didn't want to feel useless…"
Hiroki's breath catches. His eyes shine red. He steps forward, pulls her into his arms.
"You're not useless," he whispers fiercely.
"But you don't get to destroy yourself just because you feel alone."
"I'm right here. I've always been here."
They lay together in silence.
She whimpers, curling up close, head buried in his chest. Like a child in the womb.
"…I need you. I need you so much…"
"Not now," he murmurs into her hair. "I want you to feel safe. I don't want to hurt you anymore."
His voice soothes her, low and steady.
The clock ticks.
Yuna slowly drifts off, her fingers pressed to his chest—
As if cradling a dream.
The night stretches on. And finally, she sleeps.
....
After placing the baby gently back into the crib, Yuna lingers for a few moments.
The little one has just finished nursing and quickly curls up again, asleep like an angel. She doesn not cry, does not fuss — such a calm, understanding child. Yuna watches her daughter's tiny face in the dim light, heart heavy and full, before quietly closing the door and returning to her room.
The space is warm.
A gentle fragrance of sandalwood and bergamot hang in the air. Candlelight flickers softly on the nightstand, and the low murmur of the heater hums beneath it all. Everything, from the neatly folded towels to the embroidered bedding, carries the marks of someone's careful, thoughtful hands.
His hands.
Yuna slips off her outer cardigan, exhaling deeply as if shedding the long, weighty haze of recent days. But the moment she spots him — standing by the window, his back to her — something inside her tightens.
It is not desire in the ordinary sense.
It is something deeper. A pull from the very marrow of her being.
She steps forward, barefoot on the wooden floor, until her fingers brush his back and gently turn him around.
They look at each other. In that instant, everything else disappears.
"Yuna…" he whispers, but his words are swallowed by her kiss.
Urgent. Unsteady. Starved. Her hands slide beneath his shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the quiet tremble in his muscles.
He kisses her back, no longer holding back, no longer cautious. Their breaths tangle, desperate and raw.
He wants her. Madly.
Wants to fill the emptiness he watched her drown in, night after night, unable to help.
Their bodies press close, her skin against his — fragile, familiar, burning.
"Yuna… slower…" he murmurs, voice shaking.
"No," she gasps, "I need this... I need to feel loved… right now."
"I'll love you," he whispers, cupping her face tenderly. "But let me… let me be gentle."
He kisses her again — this time deeper, slower, almost reverent. His lips explore hers, not in haste but in devotion, tasting sorrow, yearning, and forgiveness all at once.
He lets out a low groan from deep in his throat—a sound catches somewhere between restraint and aching pleasure.
She can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears, impatiently tapping his shoulder as his chest heaves against hers, as if he, too, is nearing his limit.
He pulls her shirt aside, revealing a delicate, bony shoulder. His lips part, brushing slow, wet kisses along her neck, her collarbone. "It's… not beautiful," she whispers, voice catching, arms suddenly wrapping around herself.
"What isn't?" he asks, breathless, lifting his head.
"My body..."
Her words flip some unseen switch in him. He pries her arms away, lowers his face to hers, and kisses her—hungry, intense.
"It is beautiful," he growls softly between kisses. "Always has been. Always will be."
He lays her gently onto the bed, not a single inch of her body is left untouched—he worships her with his mouth, with a kind of reverence, a quiet obsession.
Her breath hitches, eyes clouded with desire as they follow his every move.
The rhythm was slow—tender and relentless.
And all it takes was the way he looks at her—those eyes full of hunger and gentleness—for the pleasure to crash over her in vivid, undeniable waves.
His lips catch her breath, the soft whimpers spilling from her mouth. Their tongues meet—tasting, exploring—each kiss deeper than the last.
He move with worshipful care, like he is tracing poetry across her skin.
Every motion, every panting, is a conversation between souls. And when they finally come together — not in lust, but in aching, overwhelming connection — it feels less like desire and more like coming home.
Their bodies dance under the soft light.
Their hands clasp tightly mid-air — a silent vow, a bond forged from brokenness and trust.
And when they reach that final edge, when the last barrier give way and everything melts into light and trembling breath — it is like a flood of feeling, of fire and water, soft and fierce all at once.
He holds her afterwards. Her head on his arm, her back against his chest, his heart beating steady beside her ear.
By morning, he is still holding her, their warmth tangles in the covers. He buries his face in her neck, breathing her in.
"You don't have to carry it alone anymore," he murmurs. "You're my only reason to keep going… please don't hurt me by shutting me out."
Her eyes flutter shut — not from sleep, but from exhaustion. His words wrap around her, echoing through her heart.
She whispers back, "There were nights I didn't want to wake up. I thought I was too far gone… but you stayed. You endured all of me."
He turns her gently, seeing the tears that silently fall from her eyes.
"I don't care if it hurts," he says. "Just… don't push me away again. I'll take it all, just… talk to me, please…"
"Hiroki…" she breathes, reaching up to touch his face, "from now on… I won't leave you behind."
She has always refused to abandon him. Even when they were younger, she cannot bear the thought of him being alone.
But this time, the reason she stays was different. The love has changed.
"I don't know how many more mistakes I'll make in the future… but please don't wait around. Just pull me back. Don't let me keep being a foolish…"
"You're not foolish," Hiroki whispers. "You're the one who pulled me out of the dark."
He touches her tear-stained cheek, eyes shimmering with everything he cannot say.
"Don't give up too much for me," she adds quietly. "When I look at you… I still see it. That fire. That dream. And I know I'm not the only thing it burns for."
He stills, her words reaching the tender places he thinks she din not notice.
"Will you keep making music?" she asks softly. "I want to hear what you write… especially when it's about me."
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