There’s a unique kind of silence that fills a room full of people pretending to be busy. The clatter of pens, the occasional rustle of paper, the low hum of someone trying not to cry into their coffee. I thrive in that silence.

And by ‘thrive’ I mean ‘eat cereal in my hoodie like a swamp gremlin while watching people avoid their feelings.’

My name is Hiro Sasaki. A childhood friend. A freeloader. And, in many ways, the leftover thread in someone else’s love story. Growing up, I stayed with Yuuta and… her. Having an unrequited love, I couldn’t help but support Yuuta from the bottom of my heart. I never had a family of my own. But those two? They made it feel like I did. They were my constants. Through the highs and lows, the tantrums and tears. I was a scared, quiet kid with no place to call home—until they found me and made room for me in theirs.

They helped me laugh again. Gave me reasons to stay. I haven’t cried since the day I met them. 

We were a trio. The chaotic couple, and me. The third wheel who knew he was one… and stayed anyway.

You learn a lot, being in that position. Like how love sometimes means knowing when not to interfere. When to let people make their own mistakes. Even when it breaks your heart to watch.

On the day of his accident, I ran to the hospital like my life depended on it. 

I barged into that room and saw Yuuta’s mom crumpled in tears. His dad holding her like the world had ended. And in that sterile white room, the only person missing was her. The one who should’ve been there the most.

Days passed. Weeks. Still nothing.

I told myself maybe she was grieving in her own way. Maybe she was scared. But when I went to her house… her dad kicked me out before I could even say Yuuta’s name. 

Was it that easy to walk away? Wasn’t she supposed to be his everything?

A million thoughts dashed through my head, but then, a voice whispered:

“Maybe this is what people call betrayal.”

Even if I wasn’t the one she left behind… I felt it. That hollow, raw feeling of being the only one still holding on.

I told myself I’d never see her again.

My first love was dead to me already. Hah, even I can’t believe myself.

I still cry looking at our old picture that I hid behind my bookshelf in my room. The old days are gone now. But… I still can’t get over them.

But now she’s back. And I’m scared as hell. Not for myself. But for Yuuta. Because some wounds don’t scar over if you keep tearing them open.

I lounged on the couch like I was born there—because let’s be honest, half my personality was built on napping between deadlines. Across the room, Yuuta and Sena were talking. Again. Close enough that their mugs nearly kissed. The kitchen lights caught the ends of Sena’s hair. She laughed at something he said—too loud for it to be casual, too soft for it to be fake.

I didn’t blame her. Yuuta had that tragic ‘I lost my memories and now I’m emotionally constipated’ charm going on. Worked on all demographics.

Shiho didn’t like it, though. She didn’t say it. Shiho rarely said anything unless it was about panel contrast or vanishing points. But her pencil scratched the paper like it owed her money. The way she turned her body—just slightly, just enough to not see Yuuta and Sena unless she tried—it told me more than words.

She was drawing the same panel for the third time. Girl in shadow, eyes distant. Same expression that Shiho wore when she thought no one was looking.

But I was looking. That’s kind of my whole job.

Not officially, of course. Officially, I ink lines and fix backgrounds and occasionally wrestle with the printer when it acts possessed. But unofficially? I’m the guy who notices when Yuuta forgets something that mattered. The guy who sees Sena’s hands shake right before she smiles. The guy who remembers who Shiho used to be before the silence settled over her like smoke.

I’m not a saint. I don’t fix anything. I just stay. I think sometimes, that’s enough.

“Yuuta.” Shiho’s voice cut across the room like a scalpel. Calm. Too calm.

He turned, almost flinching. “Yeah?”

“This one. The way the shadows fall on the character’s face—it’s not carrying the tension right. Should I increase the contrast here?”

She walked up to him, holding her clipboard like a shield. And she got close. Closer than needed. Close like muscle memory. Like the way you only step that close to someone when you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Sena stepped back.

Just slightly.

She didn’t make a sound. She just looked down into her cup and stirred nothing in particular.

I sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.

“Well, this room suddenly got some tension.”

Sena shot me a glare. Shiho ignored me entirely. Yuuta blinked like someone had replaced his brain with static.

I leaned back and threw an arm across the couch’s backrest. “What? Just observing the ecosystem. Shiho the silent predator, Sena the cheerful distractor, Yuuta the—uh—terminally confused.”

No one laughed. Rude.

Eventually, things settled. Shiho went back to drawing. Yuuta stared at his coffee like it held the answers to the universe. Sena cleaned a perfectly clean countertop.

I got up and grabbed the latest stack of drafts. Sena handed them over.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. Just a little… off.”

“Shiho?”

“Of everything.”

Honest. I liked that about her.

“She’s changed,” she said after a beat. “Shiho, I mean. She’s talking more. To Yuuta.”

“She’s remembering how to talk,” I replied. “That’s good. But it’s also complicated.”

“She’s competitive.”

“She’s scared,” I said before I could stop myself.

Sena blinked. “Of what?”

I looked out the window. The sunlight hit the dust in the air just right—like particles hanging between realities. Just like us.

You ever read a story where the princess leaves the castle not because she wants to escape, but because she can’t bear to see the prince wounded?”

Sena blinked. “I—no?” Deadpanning, she adds, “Is this one of your fables?”

“Kind of…”

She raised her brows but didn’t interrupt.

After telling her the story, I gave her a lazy grin. “That guy was devastatingly handsome, by the way.”

She snorted. “Right. Of course.”

“But the prince,” I said, “even after everything—he kept drawing something. Same image, again and again. A girl by the riverbank. Under a tree. He didn’t know why. He just did.”

Sena was still now. Really still.

I shrugged. “Maybe someday, he’ll remember. Maybe not. The thing is… maybe the best friend doesn’t want him to.”

She swallowed, throat dry. “Did this prince… ever find out?”

“I guess that depends on the story,” I said, grinning faintly. “You’re a storyteller too, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Because some memories aren’t just painful. They’re poison.” I think to myself as Sena looks at me with a puzzled look.

There was a silence between us then—not awkward. Just honest.

We didn’t say anything more. The day moved on.

Yuuta went back to writing. Shiho redrew another panel. Sena made another pot of coffee. I cracked a dumb joke about us all being cursed manga monks stuck in eternal crunch.

But when I looked around the room, I knew something had changed.

The lines between the characters were getting clearer.

So was the tension between them.

And me?

I just kept sitting on the couch. Watching. Cracking jokes. Holding everything just a little longer than I probably should.

Because someone has to hold the silence together when no one else can.

—end chapter 6