Mirai had never noticed how loud the clock in the living room was until that moment.
It ticked behind her parents' silence, each second a small, sharp sound in the still air. The television was on, but the volume was low, the news anchor's voice just a distant murmur under the weight of the words she had brought into the room.
Her hands were clasped so tightly in front of her that her nails dug crescents into her palms.
Her mother was the first to speak.
"Mirai," she said slowly, as if tasting the name of a stranger. "Say that again."
Mirai's throat felt dry. She swallowed, but nothing moved.
"I…" Her voice shook. She forced herself not to look away. "I'm pregnant."
The word felt wrong in the space between them. Heavy. Too adult for her mouth.
Her father's eyes widened, then narrowed. For a second, he simply stared, as if waiting for her to laugh and say it was a joke. That this was some kind of terrible misunderstanding. But Mirai stood there, trembling, not smiling.
Her mother's chair scraped against the floor as she stood up too fast.
"That's not funny," she snapped. "This isn't the kind of thing you joke about."
"I'm not joking," Mirai whispered.
The room seemed to tilt. The light above the dining table hummed softly, indifferent.
Her father exhaled, a harsh, disbelieving sound.
"How?" he demanded.
The question was absurd—she knew he didn't mean it that way, but still, her mind flickered with a bitter answer that didn't reach her tongue.
You already know how. You just never thought it would be me.
"That… doesn't matter," she managed. "The test was positive. I took… more than one."
Her mother pressed a hand over her mouth, as if the words themselves might contaminate the air.
"How far?" her father asked. His voice had gone flat, too calm. It was the calm that came when someone stood on the very edge of losing control.
Mirai's fingers shook as she twisted them together.
"I… I don't know exactly," she said. "A few weeks. Maybe more."
Her mother's hand dropped from her mouth, fingers trembling.
"At school?" she whispered. "While you were… At your age… Mirai, do you understand what you're saying?"
"Yes," Mirai said. The word scraped her on the way out. "I understand."
Her father slammed his hand down on the table.
The sound cracked through the silence like thunder.
"You understand?" he repeated, voice rising. "You understand and you still did this? Are you out of your mind?"
Mirai flinched. The instinct to apologize rose, automatic, as if she had spilled tea or come home late, but the words got stuck.
Her mother's eyes shone with tears, but they were not soft tears. They were sharp, made of anger and fear twisted together.
"What were you thinking?" she cried. "You're seventeen! Do you have any idea what this means? What people will say? What will happen to your life? To ours?"
I know.
That's all I've been thinking about since that line appeared.
"I…" Mirai's voice broke. "I made a mistake."
The admission felt like stepping out into the open without any armor on.
Her father laughed once, a short, bitter sound with no humor in it.
"A mistake," he repeated. "You call this a mistake like it's a bad quiz score."
Her mother's words tumbled out, faster now, frayed at the edges.
"We raised you better than this. You always came home on time. You studied. You never caused trouble. How could you… how could you throw everything away like this? Do you have any shame?"
Shame.
The word landed on her shoulders like a weight she was already carrying.
"I'm sorry," Mirai said. The tears that had threatened in the bathroom, at his house, on the walk home—all of them finally pushed their way out. "I'm really… I'm really sorry."
"Sorry?" Her father's voice sharpened. "Do you think 'sorry' can erase this?"
His anger wasn't only about her. She could see it now, in the way his jaw clenched, in the way he refused to meet her eyes for too long. It was about the neighbors, the relatives, the colleagues at work who would whisper behind his back.
What will they think of my family?
What did I do wrong as a parent?
Her mother sank back into her chair, hand pressed to her forehead.
"Who is it?" she asked. Her tone had cooled, but only on the surface. "The boy. Who?"
Mirai hesitated.
Saying his name here felt wrong. Like giving him a place in a story he had already walked out of.
Her father slammed the table again.
"Who is it, Mirai?" he demanded.
She swallowed.
She said his name.
The room pulsed with a different kind of silence now—recognition.
Her parents looked at each other.
"The boy from the other class?" her father asked. "The one you said you were studying with sometimes?"
"We trusted you," her mother whispered. "We trusted you when you said it was just studying."
Mirai's chest burned.
"I trusted him too," she said.
The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft but edged with something new—hurt, not just guilt.
Her father leaned forward.
"And what does he say about this?" he asked. "What is he going to do?"
Mirai looked down at her feet. The floor swam slightly.
"He… he told me to handle it," she said. "That he needs to focus on his future."
Her mother's eyes widened.
"He said that?" she asked, voice shaking.
Mirai nodded, tears dripping onto the floor.
"And his parents?" her father pressed.
Mirai's fingers curled tighter into her skirt.
"I… went to their house," she admitted. "I told them everything."
The memory rose up again whether she wanted it to or not—the living room, the cold eyes, the sentence that had fallen between them like a knife.
"They… they said he has a future. That I shouldn't ruin his life because of… my mistake."
Your mistake.
Saying it aloud made her stomach twist.
Her mother's face reddened, anger rising now not only at her but at them.
"They said that to you?" she demanded. "To your face?"
Mirai nodded again.
"They told me to get rid of it," she whispered. "And never contact him again."
The room shifted.
Her father stood up slowly. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to go to their house and shout until the walls cracked. His hands opened and closed at his sides, fists forming and relaxing.
"How dare they," he mouthed, more to himself than to anyone else.
But the anger turned, as anger often did, back toward the safer target. The one standing in front of him. The one under his roof.
His gaze snapped back to her.
"And you went there alone?" he said. "You told strangers before you told your own parents?"
The words speared straight through her.
"I…" She choked. "I didn't know how to tell you. I was scared."
"So instead you went running to the ones who used you," he bit out. "Mirai, what were you thinking? Is this how childish you are? To get yourself into this mess and then go begging the ones who threw their responsibility on you?"
Her mother's voice rose, raw.
"You should have come to us first! Not them! Do you know what position you've put us in? Do you understand what this will do to our name? To your brother? To—"
She stopped herself, but the words had already slipped.
To your brother.
Mirai's vision blurred completely.
"I just… I didn't want to disappoint you," she whispered.
Her father stared at her as if the sentence made no sense.
"You disappoint us more by hiding it," he said.
The clock kept ticking.
Her heart pounded in time with it, each beat thudding against the edges of her fear.
"What… what are we going to do?" her mother asked, her voice cracking. She wasn't looking at Mirai anymore, but at her husband, as if the problem sat between them and not in front of them.
"The neighbors will talk," she went on. "People will ask. At school, what will they say? How will she graduate like this? How will Yuuto look after this? How will—"
"Enough," her father cut in. But his voice was fraying too. "I need to think."
His gaze snapped back to Mirai, harsher now, as if every worry inside him needed somewhere to land.
"Go to your room," he said. "We'll… discuss this later."
His tone made it clear that "discuss" meant something closer to "decide your fate."
Mirai's legs felt numb.
"I'm sor—"
"If you say sorry one more time, I don't know what I'll do," he snapped, sudden and sharp. "Go."
The word struck like a command she couldn't disobey.
She turned, the floor tilting slightly under her feet. The hallway stretched longer than she remembered. The family photos on the wall blurred—pictures of them on trips, of her in her middle school uniform, of Yuuto's graduation.
She walked past them like a stranger moving through someone else's memories.
Her fingers fumbled with her door handle. When she got it open, she stepped inside and shut it quickly, pressing her back against the wood.
Her chest rose and fell too fast.
Their voices still carried, muted but sharp through the wall. Her name punctuated the muffled sounds like a repeated blow.
Irresponsible.
Shame.
Future.
What will people say.
She pressed her hands over her ears. It didn't help. The words weren't just in the air; they were inside her now, overlapping with his:
Your mistake.
She crossed the room blindly, nearly tripping over her bag, and collapsed onto the bed.
The ceiling stared back at her.
Her body curled in on itself, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. It reminded her of how she used to lie when she was little, after a bad dream. Back then, her mother would eventually come in, sit on the edge of the bed, and stroke her hair until she calmed down.
Now the only thing near her was the sound of their anger and fear, leaking through the walls.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into the pillow, the words soaking into the fabric like water. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"
But no matter how many times she said it, nothing moved, nothing reversed, nothing softened.
A tiny, almost invisible point of warmth sat under her palm where it rested on her stomach. Fragile. Quiet.
The house around her shook with the weight of a future none of them had asked for.
Somewhere between the ticking of the clock and the muffled rise and fall of her parents' voices, Mirai's tears ran dry.
She lay there, eyes open, feeling the house split into two worlds: the one where they shouted about her, and the small, silent one where she was locked alone with what they wanted to pretend could still be erased.
Yuuto shifted the weight of the bag in his hand and frowned at the sky.
It had been clear earlier, but now thin clouds smeared gray across the blue, the kind that didn't bring rain but still dulled the light.
He glanced at the plastic bag swinging at his side—pudding cups, a small slice of strawberry shortcake in a clear container, and a can of his sister's favorite sweet coffee.
It wasn't much. Just convenience store sweets. But he'd watched Mirai dragging her feet for days now, moving like her thoughts were somewhere far away, and sweets had fixed at least half of her problems when she was little.
When she was stressed about tests, he'd bring home dorayaki. When she cried in middle school because a friend moved away, they'd split a popsicle on the balcony and let the cold numb things for a while.
You couldn't fix everything with sugar, he knew that. But you could make the worst parts feel a little less dark for a few minutes.
He kicked a small stone as he walked, sending it skittering ahead.
"Seriously, what's gotten into you lately," he muttered to himself, picturing her pale face that morning. "You're the one who always told me not to overthink. Hypocrite."
As he turned onto their street, he slowed.
The house looked the same as always from the outside. Same small front step. Same potted plant by the door that their mother kept forgetting to water consistently. Same shoes lined up neatly in the entrance when he slid the door open.
But the air felt different as soon as he stepped inside.
Heavy.
The TV was off. His father usually watched something this time of night—news, variety shows, anything that filled the space with harmless noise. Now there was only the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the clock.
"Welcome home," his mother said.
The words came automatically, but the warmth wasn't there. She sat at the table with her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white. His father sat beside her, elbows on his knees, lips pressed into a thin line.
Yuuto toed off his shoes slowly.
"What happened?" he asked.
His mother didn't answer at first. She just stared at the table, jaw tense.
Yuuto's gaze flicked between their faces.
"Did… something happen at work?" he tried. "Or with… relatives?"
His father exhaled.
"Close the door," he said.
That wasn't normal.
Yuuto slid the entrance door shut, the soft click sounding much louder than usual in the quiet house. As he stepped fully into the living room, he noticed something else.
Mirai's door down the hallway was closed.
It wasn't unusual in itself—she often studied with it shut—but the air around it felt… still. Like the pause before a storm.
He tightened his grip on the convenience store bag.
"Where's Mirai?" he asked.
"In her room," his mother said. The words were sharp.
He waited for more. None came.
His father straightened up slightly, eyes on him now. They were tired. Anger and worry sat side by side in the lines around them.
"Sit down, Yuuto," he said.
Yuuto's stomach dropped a little.
He set the bag on the low table, the plastic rustling loudly in the silence, and sat on the couch. His parents didn't usually line up like this unless it was something serious. The last time had been when a relative fell ill. Before that, when they discussed school choices.
They looked at him now like they were about to tell him something irreversible.
"What's going on?" he asked quietly. "Is everyone okay?"
His mother laughed once. It broke halfway.
"Okay?" she repeated. "No, Yuuto. Nothing is okay right now."
His father ran a hand over his face, then let it drop, fingers curling on his knee.
"It's your sister," he said.
Yuuto's body tensed.
"Is she sick?" he asked quickly. "Did something happen at school? Did someone—"
His mother cut in.
"Yuuto," she said. "Mirai… Mirai is pregnant."
The word didn't fit in his ears at first. It sounded wrong, mismatched, like hearing someone else's name applied to his family.
He stared.
"...What?" he said softly.
"She told us tonight," his father said. "She's known for days. Weeks, maybe. We're still trying to understand how long this has been going on behind our backs."
Pregnant.
The word circled again, slower this time, landing with more weight.
Mirai.
His little sister who always double-checked the locks at night. Who scolded him when he forgot his umbrella. Who organized her pens by color and wrote grocery lists for their mother without being asked.
"She…" Yuuto's voice trailed off. Thoughts tangled together too tightly to separate. "Are you sure? Did she… did she go to a doctor?"
"Just tests," his mother said, voice strained. "But they were all positive. She admits it."
Positive.
Yuuto thought back—how pale she'd been lately. How easily she tired. The way she kept touching her stomach unconsciously once or twice when she thought no one was looking.
How didn't I see it?
His father's mouth twisted.
"And it gets worse," he said. "The boy—her boyfriend—wants nothing to do with it."
The word boyfriend stabbed harder than he expected.
Boyfriend.
So there had been someone. And he hadn't known.
"She… she has a boyfriend?" Yuuto asked. The question sounded ridiculous even as it left him. Of course she did. She was seventeen. She was kind, gentle, easy to like. How could no one have liked her like that?
His mother let out a shaken breath.
"Had," she corrected. "He told her to 'handle it' herself. He doesn't want his life ruined. His parents… told her to get rid of the baby and never contact him again."
Yuuto felt something go very still inside him.
"His parents said that?" he repeated.
"Yes," his father said. "And do you know what's even more galling? She went to them first. Not us. She told them before she told her own family."
The hurt under the anger was obvious now. It stung him on their behalf and on his own.
Yuuto glanced down the hallway at Mirai's closed door.
She was there. Just a few meters away. A wall and a door between them, and yet it felt like an entire country had grown there in the last hour.
He could imagine her on the other side, curled up on her bed, fists in the sheets, shoulders tight.
She could probably hear every word they were saying.
His chest tightened painfully.
"I see," he said.
The words were automatic. Useless.
His father leaned forward, elbows on his knees again.
"I don't know what we're going to do," he said, voice low, raw. "If this becomes public, what will the neighbors say? What about school? Her future? Yours? We worked so hard to keep this family's name clean. And then…"
He shook his head.
His mother's eyes filled again.
"I know she's our daughter," she said. "I know she must be scared. But right now, all I can feel is… anger. And shame. And fear. Yuuto, I don't know how to talk to her without shouting."
He understood that. He really did.
Because beneath the first shock, beneath the confusion and the questions and the instinctive who? and how? there was something else beginning to rise in him.
Not shame.
Not fear.
Something hot and sharp and directed outward.
"She didn't do this alone," he said quietly.
Both parents looked at him.
"I know you're angry," he went on. "I get it. But she didn't get pregnant by herself."
"The boy's parents—" his mother began, but he cut in gently, firmly.
"The boy's parents are cowards," he said. The word tasted right in his mouth, even if it would upset them. "And so is he. Throwing everything on her and running away—that's cowardice."
His father's eyes narrowed, but he didn't immediately scold him for the disrespect.
"This isn't just about blame," his father said. "This is about consequences. About our lives. About—"
"I know," Yuuto repeated. He looked down at his hands, noticing faint red marks where the plastic bag handle had dug into his skin. He hadn't let go of it.
He loosened his grip slowly.
"But whatever we're feeling right now?" he said. "She's feeling it too. And more."
His mother flinched slightly.
"She's the one who carries it," he continued, voice steadying. "In her body. In her head. Every second. We get to choose when we think about this. She doesn't."
The thought punched through him clearly now, cutting through the fog.
He imagined it—waking up every morning knowing something was growing inside you that the world would throw stones at you for. Looking at classmates laughing about trivial things while your own future blurred. Standing in front of the boy whose hand you once held and hearing him say your problem.
Walking to his house alone and hearing adults, who were supposed to know better, tell you to erase a life and disappear.
He didn't know how she had stood through that without collapsing.
He didn't know how many times she had almost told him and stopped.
His mother's voice came out small.
"What are we supposed to do?" she asked. "Smile and accept it? Pretend nothing's wrong?"
"No," Yuuto said. "Nothing about this is easy. Or right. Or simple."
He thought of the ticking clock, of nights he had come home late to find Mirai studying at the table, gently scolding him for his messy notes. Of the time she had caught a cold and still tried to go to school, and he'd physically pushed her back into bed and made her stay.
Back then, the worst thing they'd argued about was who used the bathroom too long in the morning.
"But if everyone else throws stones at her," he said quietly, "and we throw stones too… where is she supposed to stand?"
The room went very still.
His parents looked at him, and for a moment he saw something soften in his mother's eyes—an old instinct, buried under fear, trying to reach the surface again.
His father's shoulders sank, just a little.
"This is not how I imagined her life," his father said, voice rough. "Or yours."
"Me neither," Yuuto said. A humorless smile touched his lips. "But it's already happening. Whether we accept it or not."
He picked up the plastic bag, the pudding cups and cake rustling inside.
"I'm going to talk to her," he said.
His mother tensed.
"Don't… don't let her think we're okay with this," she said quickly. "She needs to understand how serious this is."
"She already does," Yuuto replied softly. "Better than any of us."
He stood.
As he walked down the hallway, each step felt heavier. The wood floor creaked in the familiar places, the way it always had, but tonight the house felt like it was holding its breath.
He stopped in front of Mirai's door.
It was closed, the thin wooden panel a simple thing that had never meant much before. Now it separated two worlds—the one where her fate was being discussed, and the one where she lay alone under the weight of it.
He lifted his hand.
On the other side of the door, Mirai stared at the ceiling, eyes dry now, heart pounding at the sound of footsteps.
She knew that rhythm. The way the heel hit first, then the quieter roll of the step.
Yuuto.
Her fingers curled in the blanket.
Please don't hate me, she thought, the words too fragile to reach her mouth.
Yuuto stood there for a second, palm hovering just above the wood.
He could almost feel her presence through it.
Scared. Alone. Braced for judgment.
He could hear faintly how their parents' voices had carried earlier. There was no way she hadn't heard everything. Every word about shame. About neighbors. About futures ruined.
He let his hand rest gently against the door.
In that small contact, he made a quiet promise to himself that no one else could hear.
No matter what they decided.
No matter what people said.
No matter how much the world turned its back on her—
He wouldn't.
He would not leave her alone in this.
His knuckles tapped softly against the wood.
"Mirai," he called, voice low, careful. "It's me."
On the other side, her chest tightened.
Between them, the door waited, holding its breath with the house.