The studio was unusually quiet for the afternoon, a rare lull in the usual scuffle of pages being shuffled and pens scratching furiously. Shiho was hunched over her desk, tablet pen dancing in clean arcs. Hiro was lying on the floor, arms flopped over his eyes like he was playing dead. Sena sat cross-legged at the coffee table, carefully labeling the ink bottles again—though they’d already been labeled twice.

“Hey,” she said without looking up, “can you grab the spare nibs and masking tape? Should be in the back cupboard.”

Yuuta, mid-sip of his coffee, blinked slowly. “The scary cupboard?”

“Yep. The one with everything shoved into one giant box like a demon offering.”

He sighed. “If I don’t come back in five minutes, tell my manga I loved it.”

No one laughed. But Sena smiled faintly, and Hiro gave a thumbs-up without opening his eyes.

Yuuta headed toward the supply room, dodging boxes, cables, and a suspiciously squeaky floorboard. He crouched down and started rummaging through the chaos. His fingers brushed past an old ruler, dried-out pens, a bag of unopened snacks probably older than Shiho’s entire assistant career—and then stopped.

A worn-out sketchbook, slightly wedged between the shelf and a stack of boxes, caught his eye. The cover was faded, and the edges curled. It didn’t belong here.

He pulled it out slowly.

It had his name scribbled on the corner in rushed handwriting. His handwriting. Pages fluttered as he flipped through, and with every line, something inside him shifted—like a tremor through packed snow.

Then came the drawing.

The one he didn’t remember drawing—but knew in his bones. A child holding a sketch in hand, looking just like—

His hand froze. His breath caught.

Everything after that was a blur.

The sketchbook fell to the floor with a dull thud. Pages fluttered open as if trying to spill the weight of what they carried.

Yuuta stood frozen, hand still hovering near the shelf where he’d pulled it from. The drawing was old—rushed pencil lines, the kind he hadn’t used in years—but the signature was unmistakable. Not his own. A child’s scrawl. Familiar. Distant. Real.

Then, the pain came. Sharp. Crushing. Like something inside him had twisted the wrong way.

The room dimmed.

Sena’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “Yuuta? You okay?”

He didn’t answer.

She rounded the corner just in time to catch him collapsing.

The sketchbook lay open beside him. A drawing of a boy holding hands with someone just out of frame.

Sena screamed his name.

—

Hospitals smelled like bleach and overcompensation.

Yuuta lay in bed, an IV dripping slow breaths into his veins. Machines beeped in rhythms no one wanted to dance to.

Sena sat by his side, knees pulled up to her chest on the vinyl chair, her face a mix of defiance and helplessness. Her eyes were red. She didn’t remember when she started crying. She only knew she hadn’t stopped.

Hiro stood by the doorway, arms folded, eyes on the slow rise and fall of Yuuta’s chest. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t empty.

When Yuuta stirred—just a twitch of the fingers—Sena reached out without thinking. Her hand wrapped around his, firm and trembling.

He opened his eyes slowly. The ceiling lights glared above, and then he saw her.

“…Sena?”

She didn’t speak. Just nodded. Just smiled. Just held on.

Hiro watched them for a moment longer, then exhaled.

“I’ll be outside.” he said quietly.

The door clicked shut behind him.

She was waiting. Of course she was. Sitting on the hallway bench, her hair tied up loosely, hands wringing the strap of her bag.

Shiho stood as Hiro approached, but he didn’t slow down.

“Come.” he said.

She followed.

Outside, the hospital garden was quiet. Benches half-wet from a morning drizzle. Air heavy with the scent of jasmine and antiseptic.

They sat—far apart. Opposite ends of the same bench.

Hiro didn’t look at her.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Shiho’s voice was soft. “I was concerned.”

Hiro let out a scoff. It wasn’t kind.

“Concerned?” he repeated. “That’s rich coming from someone of your kind. You’ve been silent for ten years and now you show up at his doorstep like you’re owed a welcome?”

Shiho said nothing.

“I made myself a promise back then,” Hiro said. “That I’d never let you near him again. That I’d keep the one person you didn’t completely break safe from you.”

Still, she said nothing.

“I watched him forget everything. Watched him wake up in a bed with blank eyes, not knowing who he was. And I told myself I’d never let the person who helped ruin him walk back in like nothing happened.”

The garden hummed. A breeze passed. Still, no words.

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt,” Hiro went on. “You were… changed. Quieter. Better at pretending. But people don’t change that much, Shiho.”

He turned to her now. His gaze was sharp, but his voice stayed even.

“Yuuta doesn’t have much time left.”

Shiho’s breath caught. Her eyes widened.

“He has a condition.” Hiro said, “—neurological. He gets frequent strokes and he forgets things by the same evening. The doctors say there’s nothing more they can do. He’s… not dying today. But he’s dying. And he knows.”

Shiho blinked rapidly. Her mouth opened, then closed.

“The accident changed everything.” Hiro whispered loud enough for Shiho to listen. “The injury that occurred to him 10 years ago is finally catching up to him. The medications can only do so much now…”

He looked over to Shiho.

“Sena knows.” Hiro continued, “and she chose to stay anyway. She gives him everything, even when he forgets to ask. Even when he doesn’t realize he needs it. You don’t see that kind of love often.”

A long silence.

“…I’m glad,” Shiho whispered but her voice cracked. “I’m glad he found someone who could do that for him.”

Hiro stood.

“I’m not telling you this so you can feel better…” he said. “I’m telling you this because I want you to understand that there’s nothing for you to take back. Not now. Not ever.”

She didn’t stop him as he walked away.

Shiho sat on the bench, staring ahead. Her hands had stopped shaking. Her face didn’t crumple. Her eyes didn’t well up.

Only when the clouds passed overhead and the light dimmed again did she finally bow her head. 

—

Inside, the lights were low. Yuuta had drifted back into sleep.

Sena stroked his hair gently, her fingers tracing lines into his scalp that meant nothing to anyone else but her.

She didn’t know if he remembered crying out. If he remembered her sobbing, begging the doctors not to take him away. If he remembered how her voice cracked in ways it never had before.

Maybe it was better if he didn’t.

She leaned down, whispering near his ear.

“Please don’t go anywhere yet.”

Her voice trembled.

“Not when I still haven’t said everything I want to.”

But Yuuta only slept.

And she only stayed.

In the corner of the room, the sketchbook sat closed. Unread. Untouched.

For now.

—end chapter 8