The night after the dinner was restless. Hana lay awake, staring at the faint patterns of light and shadow on her ceiling. The house had seemed warm from the outside, glowing softly against the dark, but inside it had been colder than she imagined. Every word spoken at the table echoed in her ears—the clipped politeness, the subtle judgment, the unspoken "no" that hung in the air even when Ren's parents said nothing at all.
She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow tightly. Ren's words still lingered, fierce and protective: *"I won't separate the two."* They had stirred pride in her heart, but also fear. She hadn't wanted him to fight for her that way, not when the cost was his family. And yet, selfishly, she couldn't help but feel relieved that he had chosen her in front of them.
The vibration of her phone cut through the silence. She reached for it, her pulse quickening when she saw Ren's name.
> **Ren:** "Can't sleep. Are you awake?"
> **Hana:** "Yes."
> **Ren:** "Can I call?"
Seconds later, the phone rang. Hana pressed it to her ear, her breath steadying as his voice came through, low and weary.
"Hey," he said, and the single word carried exhaustion, but also relief.
"Hey," she whispered back.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Their silence felt like an embrace—comforting in its familiarity.
Finally, Hana broke it. "How are you?"
Ren let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Tired. My father cornered me after you left the room."
Hana's chest tightened. "What did he say?"
"That I'm wasting my life. That I've let myself be distracted. That I'm dragging you into it too." His voice was steady, but Hana heard the tension beneath it. "He told me to think about my future—his version of it. A desk job. A stable paycheck. A path that feels like a cage."
Hana closed her eyes, her heart aching. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "If I hadn't been there—"
"No." Ren's voice sharpened. "Don't say that. This isn't about you. It's about me choosing differently from what they wanted. If anything, you gave me the courage to say it out loud."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, to accept his words without doubt, but guilt still gnawed at her. "Ren… what if being with me only makes things harder for you?"
He was quiet for a moment, then spoke with a steadiness that made her breath catch. "Hana, harder doesn't mean worse. Do you understand? It's not about choosing the easy path. It's about choosing the right one. And the right one is you."
Her eyes stung with tears. "You make it sound so simple."
"Because for me, it is."
Hana let the silence stretch, listening to the sound of his breathing. For the first time since the dinner, she allowed herself to believe him fully, even if only for tonight.
"Ren," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't let go of me. No matter what happens."
"I won't," he promised, his voice low, almost fierce. "Even if the whole world turns against us, I won't."
---
The next morning, Ren sat across from his father in the quiet study of the house. The room smelled of old wood and paper, the shelves lined with volumes of history and philosophy. A place of order, discipline, and expectation.
His father's gaze was steady, unreadable. "Ren," he began, his tone controlled, "I know you think you're standing up for yourself. But you're throwing away everything we built for you. Everything we sacrificed."
Ren's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for that sacrifice if it means living someone else's life."
"You're being reckless," his father said, his voice firm but not raised. "Your photography, your wandering—it won't sustain you. And Hana—"
"Don't." Ren's voice cut sharply through the air. "Don't say her name like she's a mistake."
His father leaned back slightly, his expression hardening. "She's not the mistake. The mistake is thinking that love will shield you from reality."
Ren's chest tightened, but he didn't look away. "Maybe love won't shield me. But it will anchor me. Isn't that what you always wanted? For me to have something that keeps me steady?"
His father was silent, the weight of unspoken words thick between them. Finally, he spoke, quieter this time. "Your mother and I only want what's best for you."
Ren's hands curled into fists. "No. You want what's best for the version of me you created in your minds. But I'm not him. And I can't keep pretending to be."
The words hung heavy in the air. His father's gaze flickered—hurt, disappointment, perhaps even fear. But before he could reply, Ren stood. "I love her. I'm not walking away from that. If that means losing your approval, then so be it."
He left the study with his chest burning, his pulse racing. For once, he hadn't backed down. But the victory felt hollow, laced with the ache of distance he had never wanted between himself and his family.
---
Later that day, Ren found Hana at the park. She sat on a bench beneath the cherry trees, sketchbook open on her lap, though her pencil hadn't moved in some time. She looked up when he approached, her expression a mix of relief and worry.
"You look tired," she said softly.
"Didn't sleep much," he admitted, sitting beside her.
"Because of me?"
"Because of them," he corrected. Then, after a pause, he added more quietly, "But also because of us. Because I don't want you to doubt where I stand."
Hana's hand rested lightly on the edge of her sketchbook. "I don't doubt you. I just… worry that the weight of it all will crush you. Crush us."
Ren reached over, gently closing the sketchbook and taking her hand instead. "Then let's carry it together."
Her eyes searched his, as though looking for cracks in his resolve. But all she saw was the same steady determination she had felt in his words the night before. Slowly, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Together," she echoed.
They sat in silence after that, hands entwined, the world moving quietly around them. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with storms they could not yet see. But for now, they chose to face it side by side, their fragile bond slowly hardening into something unbreakable.