What was she doing here? And why now, of all times?
What is someone like her—someone who cheated, someone who walked away—doing back here?
It didn't make sense. I couldn't understand it. And the things she had the audacity to say to me…
"Disgusting," I muttered under my breath, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to keep my emotions in check.
But my heart didn't listen. It burned—a raw and painful ache that simmered into a fit of dull, relentless anger. It clawed at me from the inside, an unpleasant and stifling feeling that rose higher with every passing moment.
She made me uncomfortable.
No, that wasn't strong enough. She made my skin crawl. Just thinking about her filled me with a visceral unease that I couldn't shake.
She was the worst kind of person—no, the worst kind of mother. She had abandoned Shinji, her own son, and yet she still had the nerve to look me in the eye and tell me to take care of him.
What kind of mother does that? What kind of person leaves their child behind and then tries to waltz back into their life as if nothing happened? It was sickening.
"So, what did the two of you talk about?" I finally asked, directing my question toward my mother.
She had been talking to that woman earlier, smiling, laughing even. Almost too friendly to the point of disgusting. The bitterness I had been trying to hold back seeped into my voice, and I struggled to keep my anger in check.
"Hmm, I don't think you need to know about that," my mother replied casually, brushing off my question like it was nothing.
Her words stopped me in my tracks. She refused to tell me. Unbelievable. My frustration bubbled over, turning into a fury that I couldn't contain.
"Why!?" I shouted, my voice breaking through the tension in the room like a sharp crack of thunder.
The sound was louder, harsher, and more raw than I intended, reverberating in the space between us. My mother flinched slightly, startled, and for a brief moment, I was too.
I had never yelled like that before, never directed my anger at her.
But now, I couldn't stop myself. The frustration, the confusion, the simmering resentment—it all spilled out in that single word. My hands trembled at my sides, and my chest heaved with the force of my emotions.
"...I know you're angry about her past mistakes," my mother said gently, her voice steady but tinged with concern. "But listen, Yuki, you don't need to get angry on someone else's behalf."
"Why not?" I shot back, my voice trembling with frustration. "She talks as if she cares so much about Shinji, but as far as I know, she's never visited or contacted him even once! Not even an apology to her own son."
The words spilled out of me like a dam breaking, each one sharper and more raw than the last. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, a familiar storm of emotions I couldn't contain. It always happened like this—acting and speaking purely from the heart, driven by what I felt was right at the moment. I didn't pause to think about the deeper reasons, the underlying complexities, or the potential consequences of my words.
But I didn't regret it. Not a single word.
Even as the tension hung heavy in the air, I felt a sense of clarity in expressing my opinions and feelings. Someone needed to say it, to hold her accountable for the pain she'd caused Shinji. If I didn't, who would?
My mother, however, remained calm. Seeing the anger etched on my face, she stopped what she was doing—midway through cooking dinner—and walked over to me. She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, her touch both grounding and disarming.
"Have you ever thought about whether Shinji would forgive his mother?" she asked softly, her words measured and deliberate.
Her question pierced through the haze of my anger, leaving me momentarily stunned. I opened my mouth to respond but found myself at a loss for words. Would he forgive her?
"..."
The silence stretched between us as I searched for an answer. Would Shinji forgive the person who abandoned him so completely, so cruelly? My immediate instinct was no—he wouldn't. He couldn't. At least, that's what I believed. How could anyone forgive something so heartless, so deeply wounding?
And yet, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered doubts. Could I really speak for Shinji? Did I fully understand the depths of his feelings?
As I stood there, wrestling with my emotions, I realized something that made my chest tighten: forgiveness wasn't just about the person who had done wrong—it was also about the one who had been wronged.
My mother's question lingered, heavy and unresolved, as I struggled to process the storm inside me.
"Exactly," my mother said, her voice calm but firm. "Shinji may seem mature and talented on the outside, but deep down, he's still just a kid—your age."
Her words hung in the air, carrying a weight that pressed heavily on my chest. I opened my mouth to respond but hesitated, sensing she wasn't finished.
"He's also haunted by his mother's betrayal," she continued, her tone softening with a tinge of sadness. "That kind of pain doesn't just go away, no matter how strong or capable someone seems. It lingers. It shapes you."
I clenched my fists, my anger ebbing slightly, replaced by an ache I couldn't quite define. I hated the thought of Shinji carrying that burden, of him hiding that kind of pain behind his usual calm and collected demeanor. It wasn't fair.
"Things aren't as simple as you think, Yuki," my mother added, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made me look away. "No matter how smart or capable someone is, emotions are the master—not the will."
Her words were like a revelation to me.
Yeah. I guess her word is right. Sometimes my emotions get in the way of critical thinking.
But that is why we are humans.
Emotions, not willpower, guided us in ways we didn't always understand or control. Even someone like Shinji, who seemed so composed and unshakable, couldn't escape the grasp of his feelings.
That explained his weird distance from me and the way he tried to push everyone away from him.
He didn't want to get hurt again.
I felt my chest tighten again, this time with a mix of frustration and helplessness. I wanted to protect him, to shield him from the pain, but I couldn't erase what had already happened. All I could do was stand by his side—and even that felt woefully inadequate.
My mother's words echoed in my mind, leaving me unsure of what to say.
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps I didn't fully understand what Shinji was going through.
But one thing was certain: no matter how complicated or messy his emotions were, I wasn't going to let him face them alone.
I also want to be his hero.
I didn't just want to stand by Shinji's side—I wanted to be his shield, his safe place, the one who could take his pain and replace it with something better.
I... want to be with him.
The realization hit me harder than I expected—a quiet but undeniable truth that settled deep in my chest. It wasn't just about protecting him or easing his burdens.
It was about being there for him in every sense of the word—through his joys and his sorrows, his triumphs and his struggles. I wanted to be the constant in his life, the one who made him feel like he wasn't alone.
So that he won't ever get hurt again.
The thought burned within me, fierce and unwavering. I knew I couldn't erase the scars of his past; I couldn't undo the pain that had already been inflicted.
But I could be there in the future. I could be his shield, his support, his unwavering companion.
I wanted to be the person he could rely on, the one who would never abandon him or never betray him.
To stand by his side no matter how difficult things became—that was my resolve.
Even if it meant facing my own insecurities and doubts, I would do it. For Shinji.
For my hero and the one I loved.