The single bulb in Hana's dorm casts a weak yellow glow over the rumpled sheets, warm skin and stale air thick with the day's sweat. Sakura lies on the borrowed couch at 3 a.m., the ceiling a blur through tears she's too tired to wipe. The silence is a pressure, the city hum a distant lie. She slides her hand down her stomach, over the flat plane where a life once grew, and presses hard, as if she can feel the emptiness. Her cunt aches—not from want, but from a hollow knowing: she traded her womb's purpose for a fantasy, and now she has nothing.
"You think I don't know?" she whispers to the empty room. "I know exactly what I am."
She curls into herself and lets the sob rip through her chest, a raw, animal sound that belongs to no one's daughter, no one's sister. The stain on her brother's floor is gone, but the stain on her soul is a brand she can't scrub away. She feels like she's going crazy.
The first month of therapy went good, actually. Because she talked. A lot. He was in another room, she was in another. Total different therapists. His were more calm and physiological and therapeutic. Hers was more counselling and rehab. Everything was slowly going normal. Her head was getting clearer. She felt numb.
That is, until she vomited. Stomach ache. Morning sickness. In one morning class in college, she threw up. She was confused.
Then it suddenly clicked.
How could she forget?
She was pregnant.
She took a pregnancy test in the campus bathroom, her hands shaking so badly she dropped the stick twice. It reminded her of how selfless her brother was. Of how he helped her through everything during her previous pregnancy and even after. He was the best brother a girl could even pray for. A blessing. And now she had his child because she fucking raped him.
She didn't tell anyone, but Hana knew she was pregnant. Hana and Sakura lived almost like strangers. She paid a bit of money to live in Hana's dorm, and Hana took care of her because they're close friends. Other than that, Hana asked nothing. But Hana was worried about her pregnancy.
The therapy sessions were pretty expensive too. Makes sense. He's an angel. Instead of going to the police, he went to therapy with her.
He's a fucking angel.
Pregnancy was super painful. She didn't want to tell the therapist. But when she puked in her office one day, she told her. They told Kazuki.
Kazuki wanted to die. He was empty. He was doing good though. Worked out, focused a lot on his studies, and went to the sessions frequently, focusing on his recovery, listening to every fucking advice. He laid there on his bed, staring at his ceiling, unable to blink. His sister—no, she wasn't even a sister to him anymore. Sakura had a child. His child. Evidence of the rape. A reminder.
The trauma side was disgusted and wanted to puke and die. But the nicer one, the logical one, the one who loved his little sister, spoke better. Clearer. He hated how much guilt he felt, even though it wasn't his fault.
Now it's the second trimester. Sakura is sleeping long, exhausted from studies and pregnancy pain. Hana shakes her awake, her voice a thin whisper cutting through the fog. "Sakura. Your brother is here."
Sakura can barely process. The words don't make sense. She gets up anyway, her body moving before her mind catches up. The dorm is cold against her bare feet. She finds him standing outside, silent, staring at the cement on the road.
He always wears super duper covering clothes now. Baggy hoodies, loose pants. And he zones out frequently, ever since that happened. His shoulders are hunched, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He doesn't look at her when she approaches.
He doesn't say anything. Just walks past her, expecting her to follow. She does, obviously.
They take a walk.
Oh. This was weird.
Nice was not a word in their relationship now.
The pavement stretches ahead, grey and cracked. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The air smells like rain coming.
"Are you keeping it." He asks. Two feet away from her, walking silently without looking back. His voice is flat, dead.
She blinks. She gulps. "Yeah." She breathes.
Kazuki wants to puke. He really wants to puke. His stomach turns, but he keeps walking. "The therapists told me. And your friend." He says. Dead inside. She's surprised he even is asking. How is he such an angel after everything she did?
"You'll live with me." He states. His voice slow and raspy, as if he thought a lot about this.
"What?" She chokes. A strangled sound leaves her lips. She almost collapses.
"Medical school is stressful. You have to make enough money to pay for therapy, rent, food, transport, medicine. You have to..." He says a bunch of reasons, staring at her shoes, not at her face, as if trying to convince himself. "You're pregnant. Unstable." He swallows. "You'll hurt yourself." He mumbles.
She collapses. She can't breathe. A strangled sound leaving her. How the fuck is he such an angel? "How do you not want me dead?" She rasps, desperate, sobbing.
He looks at her head, blinks, and gulps. He looks away. "Get up. People are staring." He mumbles.
She is hyperventilating. She seriously can't breathe. She's bewildered. Fucking bewildered. Her knees are scraped from the pavement, a thin line of blood beading on her shin. She doesn't feel it.
"Get up." He says again, softer this time. Almost a whisper.
She forces herself to stand. Her legs are shaking. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, snot and tears smearing across her skin. She looks at him. He's still not looking at her.
"Why?" She asks. Her voice cracks. "Why would you do this? After what I did?"
He is silent for a long moment. A car passes. The wind picks up, rattling a loose sign somewhere. "Because you're my sister." He says finally. The words are hollow, mechanical. Like he's reciting a line he doesn't believe but has to say anyway.
"I raped you." She says. The words feel like glass in her throat. "I drugged you and I raped you and I took your child and you want to take me in?"
He flinches. A small, barely visible twitch in his jaw. He doesn't answer. He just starts walking again, slower this time, letting her catch up.
They walk in silence for another block. The sky is grey, heavy with clouds. The first drops of rain begin to fall, fat and cold.
"I have a spare key," he says. "I'll leave it under the mat. You can move in whenever."
She can't speak. She just nods, even though he can't see her.
The rain gets heavier. He stops walking, turns to face her for the first time. His eyes are red-rimmed, hollow. He looks at her stomach, just for a second, then looks away. "Take care of yourself." He says. "For the baby."
He walks away, disappearing into the rain. She stands there, watching him go, the water soaking through her thin shirt, mixing with the tears on her face. She presses her hand to her stomach, feeling the slight swell, the life she carries. And for the first time in months, she feels something other than emptiness.
She feels horror.
Because she also feels hope.
The therapist's office is beige. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige curtains that filter the afternoon light into something clinical and safe. Sakura sits on the edge of the couch, her hands folded in her lap, her pregnant belly a small curve beneath her loose sweater.
"He wants me to move in with him," she says. The words feel wrong in her mouth. Like they belong to someone else's life.
Dr. Mori raises an eyebrow. She's a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense voice, the kind of therapist who doesn't flinch at anything. "After what happened?"
"Yes." Sakura's voice is barely a whisper. "He said I need help. That I can't do it alone."
"And what do you think?"
Sakura stares at her hands. Her nails are bitten down to the quick. She doesn't recognize them. "I think he's wrong. I think he should hate me. I think he should have called the police."
"But he didn't."
"No." A tear slides down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it away. "He's too good. He's always been too good. And I took advantage of that. I took everything from him."
Dr. Mori leans forward. "Sakura, moving in together after a traumatic event like this—it's not recommended. For either of you. You need space to heal separately."
"I know." She laughs, a broken, hollow sound. "But he won't listen. He said the guilt will eat him alive if he doesn't help."
Across the city, in another beige office, Kazuki sits in a chair that's too comfortable. His therapist, Dr. Tanaka—no relation—watches him with patient eyes.
"She's moving in," Kazuki says flatly. "I already told her."
"Kazuki." Dr. Tanaka's voice is gentle. "We've discussed this. The trauma bond—"
"I know." He cuts her off, his jaw tight. "I know what you're going to say. But she's pregnant. With a child. She can't work full-time and go to medical school and pay for therapy and rent and food. She'll collapse. Or worse."
"And you think living with her will fix that?"
"No." He stares at the ceiling. "I think not helping her will destroy me."
Dr. Tanaka is silent for a long moment. "You're not responsible for her choices."
"I know." His voice cracks. "But I am responsible for mine. And I can't live with myself if I let her drown."
The first day in Kazuki's apartment is silent. Sakura stands in the doorway with a single duffel bag, watching him retreat to his room without a word. The door clicks shut. She stands there for a full minute before moving.
The apartment is small but clean. A kitchenette with a two-burner stove. A living room with a worn couch and a TV that's older than she is. Two bedrooms down a narrow hallway. Hers is the one with the futon already laid out, a thin blanket folded at the foot.
She sets her bag down. Sits on the edge of the futon. Stares at the wall.
The silence is a physical weight.
Hours later, a knock on her door. She opens it to find a tray on the floor. Rice. Miso soup. Grilled fish. Pickled vegetables. A glass of water.
No note. No eye contact. Just the tray, placed carefully on the tatami mat, and the sound of his footsteps retreating.
She picks it up. The food is still warm. She eats alone, sitting on the floor of her new room, listening to the muffled sounds of him moving in the kitchen. Running water. A cabinet closing. Silence.
Days pass like this. She wakes to food outside her door. She eats. She studies. She goes to class. She comes home. She eats again. She sleeps.
They never meet each other's gaze.
She catches glimpses of him—a shoulder disappearing around a corner, the back of his head as he walks to his room, his hands placing a tray on the floor. But never his face. Never his eyes.
It's a dance. A choreography of avoidance.
One afternoon, she comes home early. Her class was cancelled, the professor sick. She opens the door quietly, not wanting to disrupt whatever routine he's built for himself.
He's in the kitchen. His back is to her. He's cooking—something that smells rich and savory, like ginger and soy. His shoulders are tense, his movements mechanical. He doesn't hear her.
She watches him for a moment. The way he stirs the pot. The way he wipes his hands on a towel. The way he stares at nothing while he waits for the water to boil.
She steps back. Closes the door softly. Waits in the hallway until she hears him retreat to his room before entering.
The food is on the counter, covered with a plate to keep it warm.
At night, she lies awake, her hand on her stomach. The baby kicks sometimes—small flutters, like butterfly wings. She wonders if he can hear it through the walls. If he lies awake too, thinking about what's growing inside her.
She wants to apologize. She wants to scream. She wants to fall at his feet and beg for forgiveness. But the words are locked in her chest, and every time she tries to speak, they turn to ash in her mouth.
On the seventh day, she finds a note on her tray. It's his handwriting—neat, precise, the letters small and controlled.
"Therapy tomorrow at 2. I'll drive you."
She reads it three times. Folds it carefully. Tucks it into her pocket.
She eats her breakfast. Washes the dishes. Leaves them in the drying rack.
She doesn't see him leave the note. Doesn't see him place it there. But she knows he did. She knows because the food is always warm, the water is always fresh, and the tray is always waiting.
They drive to therapy in silence. He sits in the driver's seat, both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. She sits in the passenger seat, her bag on her lap, staring out the window.
The city passes by in a blur of grey and green. Streetlights. Convenience stores. Cherry trees shedding their last blossoms.
He pulls into the parking lot. Kills the engine. They sit there for a moment, the silence thick between them.
"I'll be here when you're done," he says. His voice is flat. Hollow.
She nods. Gets out. Walks toward the building without looking back.
In Dr. Mori's office, she talks about the silence. The trays of food. The way he avoids her eyes.
"He's taking care of me," she says. "But he won't look at me."
"How does that make you feel?"
"Like a ghost." She presses her hand to her stomach. "Like I'm already dead, and he's just going through the motions."
"And the baby?"
Sakura is quiet for a long moment. "The baby is real. That's the only thing that feels real anymore."
When she comes out, he's waiting in the car. The engine is running. The windows are fogged from his breath.
She gets in. He pulls away without a word.
They drive home in silence.
That night, she finds a new note on her tray. This time, it's longer.
"I went to the store. Got prenatal vitamins. They're on the counter. Take one a day."
She walks to the kitchen. There they are—a small orange bottle, sitting next to the kettle. She picks it up. Reads the label. Vitamins. Iron. Folic acid.
She takes one. Swallows it dry. It sticks in her throat, but she forces it down.
She leaves the bottle on the counter. Goes back to her room. Lies on the futon and stares at the ceiling.
She doesn't cry. She's too tired for that.
Weeks pass. The routine solidifies. Food appears. She eats. She studies. She goes to class. She comes home. She sleeps. She wakes to more food.
She starts leaving notes too. Small ones. "Thank you." "The food was good." "I have a test tomorrow." Nothing that requires a response. Nothing that demands his gaze.
He reads them. She knows because they disappear from the counter. But he never leaves a reply.
One night, she wakes to the sound of crying.
It's muffled, coming from his room. A sound so raw and broken that it takes her a moment to recognize it as human. She sits up, her heart pounding. The baby kicks, startled by her sudden movement.
She doesn't move. Doesn't go to him. She knows she's the last person he wants comfort from.
She lies back down. Presses her hand to her stomach. Closes her eyes.
The crying goes on for a long time. And then it stops. And then there's silence.
In the morning, the tray is there. Rice. Miso soup. A piece of salmon. A small bowl of fruit.
And a new bottle of prenatal vitamins, the old one almost empty.
She picks up the tray. Eats every bite. Washes the dishes. Leaves them in the drying rack.
She doesn't leave a note.
She doesn't know what to say anymore.