Dinner was quiet, too quiet. The sound of chopsticks brushing against ceramic bowls filled the room like the ticking of a clock. Mom sat across from me, her hair tied up neatly, wearing that tired smile she always put on when she didn't want anyone to worry. Dad sat beside her, flipping through a small newspaper, pretending to read.
I pushed a piece of grilled fish around my plate. "The store was busy today?" I asked without much thought.
Mom nodded. "Yes. Lots of people buying last-minute decorations. Christmas, after all."
Her tone was light, but I could feel the exhaustion behind it. I wanted to say she should rest, that she shouldn't push herself so hard, but the words stuck in my throat. After everything she'd endured because of me and Dad, telling her to rest would sound hollow.
Dad folded the paper. "Work gave out small bonuses today," he said. "We can buy that heater you mentioned."
Mom smiled softly. "That's great."
I kept my eyes on my plate. They were trying. I could see it — the way they both avoided mentioning the tension that still lingered between them, the way Dad was trying to fill gaps with meaningless talk, the way Mom smiled at everything, as if forcing peace to exist.
I swallowed hard. "That's good, Dad."
He nodded. "And you? School keeping you busy?"
"Always."
Mom reached over and touched my hand lightly. "You're working too hard again, aren't you?"
I froze. Her fingers were warm. That simple touch was enough to make my chest ache.
"Just… keeping up," I muttered.
She smiled again, but it was the kind of smile that hurt to see the one she used to hide her own guilt. I looked away before she noticed my expression.
The rest of dinner passed in small talk nothing deep, nothing real. Just the illusion of a normal family. But deep down, I could feel how fragile it was. How easily it could shatter.
After cleaning the dishes, I went upstairs. The air in my room was colder than usual. Maybe it was just me. Maybe the silence was too heavy tonight.
I closed the door, set my phone on the desk, and dropped to the floor.
Push-ups.
I started counting. One. Two. Three. My arms trembled slightly; I hadn't done this seriously in a few days. But I didn't stop.
Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.
Each repetition echoed in my head like a heartbeat. My muscles burned, but it felt good. It kept me focused kept me from thinking too much.
Thirty. Forty. Fifty.
Sweat began to form along my forehead. I could still hear Souta's voice in my head from that day the way he'd smiled so casually in front of my house, like he belonged there. Like he could just walk into my world and touch what wasn't his.
Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.
His smirk. His tone. His arrogance.
"Thought you and Miyuki might want to come."
Ninety.
My body trembled, my chest burned, but I forced the last one out.
"One hundred," I exhaled, collapsing on the floor. My arms felt like lead. My lungs ached.
But the fire inside me didn't die.
I sat up slowly, breathing heavily. My reflection in the dark window stared back at me sweaty, tired, eyes darker than before.
"This isn't enough," I muttered.
I stood again. Squats next. One. Two. Three.
Each motion felt like a strike. Not against the floor but against my own hesitation.
That day, I thought I'd stop at exposing them. Just make Souta and Miyuki pay publicly, humiliate them, make them feel the pain I carried. But after seeing him stand there after watching him nearly push into my mother something snapped in me.
I couldn't stop thinking about his smug face. The way he looked at me as if I was beneath him. The way he said Miyuki's name like he owned it.
Fifty squats.
My legs were trembling now, but I didn't stop.
"This isn't about revenge anymore," I whispered between breaths. "This is about destroying you."
The thought didn't scare me. It felt right. It felt… necessary.
I dropped down again push-ups, then sit-ups. One cycle after another until I lost track of the numbers. My body screamed, my mind burned, but I kept going.
Finally, when I couldn't lift my arms anymore, I sat against the wall, breathing hard. My phone buzzed on the bed. I ignored it at first, thinking it was just a notification, but it rang again.
Miyuki.
Her name flashed across the screen. For a moment, I hesitated my fingers hovered above the answer button. Then I pressed it.
"Hey," I said quietly.
"Haruto," she said, her voice soft but distant. "Are you busy?"
"Not really."
A pause. Then a sigh. "About tomorrow…"
I knew that tone. That careful, rehearsed tone people use before they lie.
"What about it?" I asked, forcing calm into my voice.
"I… I might not be able to go on our date."
My chest tightened. "Why?"
"There's a Christmas party. Souta's organizing it. He invited a lot of people teachers, some of the council members. I think it'd be good if you came too."
Her words echoed in my head, slowly twisting into static.
A Christmas party. Souta's.
I wanted to laugh, but my throat felt dry.
"Miyuki," I said slowly, "you're saying I should go to his party?"
"It's not his party," she said quickly. "It's for everyone. I just think it'd be better if we all-"
"-had fun together?" I cut her off, my tone colder than I intended.
Silence.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just… I don't want things to be awkward."
Awkward. That word stung more than I expected.
I leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "Do what you want, Miyuki."
"Haruto, please don't be like that"
"It's fine," I said, flatly this time. "Really. Go to the party. Have fun."
She was quiet again. Then, softly: "Okay."
The call ended.
I stared at the dark screen for a few seconds, my hand still gripping the phone. Then, slowly, I threw it onto the bed. It bounced off the blanket and landed on the floor with a dull thud.
I buried my face in my hands, laughing quietly. Not the kind of laugh that comes from amusement the kind that comes from disbelief.
"So… she's on his side completely," I murmured. "Of course she is."
The laugh turned into something hollow, something dry.
I stood up, staring at myself in the mirror. My reflection stared back a boy who looked calm on the outside, but whose eyes were no longer soft.
"Fine," I said to the mirror. "If that's how it is… then I'll burn everything you two have built."
The words came out quiet, but they felt heavy. Real.
Downstairs, I could hear my parents talking faintly their voices blending with the faint hum of the heater. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary night.
But for me, something had shifted permanently.
December 22nd would be remembered as the night I stopped hesitating.
The night I stopped forgiving.