Airi sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, her fingers curling around the frayed hem of her hoodie. The words had already been spoken—"They're coming tonight." But the silence afterward felt like it was still echoing.
Ren leaned against the doorframe, backpack still slung over one shoulder. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. But his eyes never left her.
"They texted yesterday," she added, her voice barely louder than a breath. "Said they want to talk. I didn't reply."
Ren stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. "Do you want them to come?"
Airi stared at her floor for a long time. "I don't know what I want."
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. That alone felt like a victory.
"They're your parents," he said carefully. "But they weren't there when it mattered."
"I don't want to forgive them just because they remembered I exist."
"You don't have to."
Airi looked up then, startled. "I don't?"
Ren shook his head. "You don't owe anyone your healing. Not even them."
Her throat tightened. That simple sentence—so casually spoken—struck something deep inside her, like the quiet echo of a door unlocking. "What if I see them and... all the progress I made just falls apart?"
"Then I'll help you put it back together." Ren smiled gently. "Again and again, if that's what it takes."
She blinked quickly, brushing at her eye. "You're really not going to leave, huh?"
"I think we've been over this."
There was a long pause. Then, softly, Airi whispered, "I'm scared."
Ren reached down, lacing his fingers with hers. "Me too. But being scared doesn't mean you have to face it alone."
The knock came just after seven.
Airi's whole body went still. Ren looked toward the front door like it was the gate to another battlefield.
"They're early," she murmured.
He squeezed her hand. "Do you want me to stay here?"
She hesitated. "Can you come with me?"
Ren didn't answer—he just stood and offered his hand.
The living room was dim, only the soft glow of a lamp lighting the space. Two figures stood just inside the open doorway. Her mother looked tired, her face thinner than Airi remembered. Her father had aged more—shoulders hunched, mouth pressed into a stiff line.
"Airi," her mother said first, voice tentative. "You look…"
"I look?" Airi echoed, not hiding the bitterness in her tone. "That's what you open with?"
"We—we just wanted to see you. To talk."
Ren stood silently at her side, not saying a word. Just being there.
Her father cleared his throat. "We heard what happened. The... incident at school. And Masaki—"
"Say his name again and I swear I'll walk out," Airi snapped.
Her father flinched, but nodded. "Right. Sorry."
Her mother reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope. "We wrote something. For you. Letters. Things we should've said years ago."
Airi didn't take the envelope.
"I don't know if I'm ready to read that," she said. "Or to listen to you pretend everything's okay."
"We're not pretending," her father said quickly. "We just… we didn't know how bad it was. And by the time we did—"
"You didn't want to deal with it."
Silence.
Airi's heart hammered in her chest. Her hands were ice. But she didn't cry.
Instead, she said, "You can leave the letter. That's all I want tonight."
Her parents looked at each other, defeated.
Her mother stepped forward and placed the envelope on the coffee table. "We'll give you space. Thank you for letting us see you."
They turned and left. The door clicked shut.
Ren exhaled slowly beside her. "You okay?"
"No," Airi whispered. "But I'm not broken."
They stood there for a moment before she leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder.
"You were amazing," Ren murmured.
"I was angry."
"Still amazing."
She didn't say anything, but her fingers found his again.
The envelope sat untouched on the coffee table, a quiet ghost of what might come next. But for now, Airi had stood her ground. She had chosen herself.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was drowning alone.