The clinic looked ordinary from the outside.
Too ordinary.
A narrow, two–story building tucked between a bakery and a stationery shop, its sign written in soft, reassuring colors. A small potted plant by the door, leaves drooping slightly from neglect. To anyone else walking past, it was just another place on another street.
To Mirai, it felt like the edge of a cliff.
She stood a step behind Yuuto on the sidewalk, fingers curled tightly into the sleeves of her cardigan. The morning air was cool, but sweat dampened her palms. Her heartbeat was loud enough that she was sure everyone around could hear it.
"Ready?" Yuuto asked gently, glancing back at her.
She looked up at the sign instead of his face, reading the name of the clinic again and again, as if the words would somehow change.
"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," she said honestly.
"Well," he replied, "we're already here, so let's aim for 'willing' instead of 'ready'."
Her lips twitched.
"Is that really how it works?" she murmured.
He shrugged lightly.
"No one is ever ready for anything important," he said. "If humans waited until they felt ready, nothing would happen. People would still be living in caves saying, 'maybe tomorrow.'"
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, then tightened her grip on her sleeves again.
"Yuuto," she said.
"Mm?"
"If they…" She swallowed. "If they say something… rude. Or judge me. Or… or look at me like I shouldn't be here…"
He met her eyes, calm and steady.
"Then they'll have a problem with me first," he said simply. "Not you."
The certainty in his voice settled some of the fluttering panic in her chest.
He turned back to the door and opened it.
A small bell chimed as they stepped inside.
The waiting room was small but clean. Soft, neutral colors. A few chairs lined against the wall, a low table with magazines neatly stacked, a water dispenser humming quietly in the corner. The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with something floral drifted through the air.
There were other people there.
A woman in her thirties flipping through a magazine without really reading it. Another sitting with a toddler on her lap, gently bouncing them. An older woman near the window staring outside, lost in thought.
Mirai's shoulders instinctively hunched.
I don't belong here.
The thought came fast, sharp.
She felt young here. Too young. Like a child who had wandered into an adults-only space by mistake.
Yuuto seemed to sense it. He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder—just a touch, grounding.
"Come on," he said softly. "Reception first."
The woman at the front desk looked up as they approached. She was middle-aged, with tired but kind eyes partially hidden behind glasses.
"Good morning," she said. "Do you have an appointment?"
Mirai's mouth went dry.
Yuuto stepped slightly forward, not blocking her, but positioning himself so she didn't feel exposed.
"Not yet," he said. "We were hoping to get a consultation. First checkup."
The woman's gaze flicked from him to Mirai, taking in the uniform blazer, the too-pale face, the way Mirai's hand hovered near her abdomen without quite touching it.
For a split second, Mirai braced herself for the tightening of lips, the raised eyebrow, the quiet judgment she had already seen on other faces.
Instead, the receptionist's expression barely changed.
"How many weeks?" she asked in a neutral tone.
"I—I'm not completely sure," Mirai managed. "Maybe… six? Or more."
"We'll confirm that," the woman replied. "Please fill this out."
She slid a clipboard and pen across the counter.
Mirai looked down at the form.
Name.
Age.
Contact information.
Last period.
Symptoms.
The words blurred for a moment.
Her hand shook slightly as she began writing. The pen left uneven strokes, a small outward sign of the internal tremor running through her.
Yuuto stood close enough that she could feel his presence, like an invisible wall behind her back.
When she hesitated at a section, he leaned closer.
"Here," he murmured, pointing gently. "You can just estimate. They'll check properly anyway."
She nodded, grateful for the quiet guidance.
When she finished, she handed the form back.
"Please have a seat," the receptionist said. "The doctor will call you soon."
They sat.
The chair felt harder than it probably was.
Mirai stared at her hands resting on her lap. The faint clinking of the water dispenser, the rustle of pages turning, the soft murmur of a nurse's voice in a back room—all of it blended into a muffled background.
Her mind replayed a different waiting room.
The living room at his house.
His mother's folded arms.
His father's cold gaze.
"Get rid of it."
"Don't ruin his future."
"Your mistake."
Her stomach twisted.
Without thinking, her hand drifted toward her abdomen again.
Softly, Yuuto spoke beside her.
"Hey," he said.
She blinked, looking up.
"We're not at their house," he reminded her. "We're not here to ask permission. We're here to get information."
She exhaled slowly.
"I know," she said. "It just… all feels tied together."
"Yeah," he admitted. "But we're cutting some of those threads now. One by one."
His voice was calm, but inside, his thoughts weren't.
From his seat, Yuuto watched the other people.
The woman with the toddler. The older woman alone. An empty chair that looked like it was waiting for someone to fill it.
He realized, with a strange jolt, that there were probably stories behind each of them. Some planned, some welcomed, some feared, some painful.
He'd never really thought about clinics like this before. They had existed in the background of his life—the kind of place mothers went to when they were expecting, the kind of place old women disappeared into quietly.
Now it was here, sharp and personal.
"Mirai-san?"
The nurse's voice cut gently through the room.
They both stood.
"Would you like your… companion to come in as well?" the nurse asked, glancing between them.
Mirai froze.
Yuuto answered.
"If that's okay and if she wants me there," he said.
The nurse smiled faintly.
"It's fine," she said. "Many people feel safer that way."
Mirai swallowed and nodded.
"Yes," she said quietly. "I… I want him to come."
The nurse gestured toward the hallway.
"Right this way."
They followed.
The hallway was narrow, walls lined with informational posters about prenatal care, vitamins, warning signs. Mirai's eyes caught on phrases:
early development
folic acid
regular checkups
Her mind raced ahead to images she wasn't ready to face yet—appointments, changes in her body, questions from teachers if she began to show.
The nurse led them into a small consultation room.
"Please wait here," she said. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
She closed the door behind them.
The room was simple. A desk. Two chairs. Medical equipment neatly arranged. A small bed to the side. A framed photo of a newborn with a tiny fist curled up near its face.
Mirai's gaze lingered on that photo.
"Breathe," Yuuto reminded her softly.
She realized she'd been holding her breath.
"I feel like… I'm about to get my test scores," she murmured faintly. "Only worse."
He tilted his head.
"You never panic about test scores," he pointed out.
"Then… like waiting for punishment," she corrected. "That feeling where you know no matter what they say, it won't erase what you did."
His face softened.
"This isn't punishment," he said.
She didn't answer, but the words sat somewhere inside her.
The door opened.
The doctor who entered was a woman in her forties, hair tied back, glasses perched low on her nose. There were faint lines around her eyes, the kind that came more from years of listening than laughing.
"Good morning," she said. "You must be Mirai-chan."
Her tone was gentle, without pity.
Mirai nodded, throat tight.
"And you are…?" the doctor asked, glancing at Yuuto.
"Her older brother," he said.
The doctor's eyebrows lifted, just slightly. She looked between them again, then nodded.
"I see," she said. "It's good you came with her."
She sat down at the desk, flipping through the form Mirai had filled.
"Seventeen," she murmured. "Possible pregnancy of about… six to eight weeks, based on what you wrote."
She looked up.
"First of all," she said, "you did the right thing by coming here."
Mirai blinked.
"I did?" she asked reflexively.
"Yes," the doctor said simply. "Many girls your age are too afraid to even step inside a clinic. They try to pretend nothing is happening. That never ends well."
She leaned back slightly.
"I'm not here to scold you," she added. "You've probably heard enough of that already."
Mirai swallowed hard.
The doctor's gaze softened almost imperceptibly at her reaction.
"I'm here," she said, "to tell you what is happening in your body, what your options are, and how to keep you as safe as possible. Whatever you decide later, you can't make a good decision if you're in the dark. Understand?"
Mirai nodded slowly.
"Okay," the doctor said. "Then let's start with confirmation. We'll run a quick test and, if needed, an ultrasound to see how far along you are. Is that all right?"
The word ultrasound made Mirai's chest tighten.
"That's… where you can see…?" she began, voice thin.
"Sometimes we can see a shape," the doctor said. "Sometimes, if it's far enough along, we can hear a heartbeat. At your estimated weeks, we may or may not. We'll see."
Heartbeat.
The word lodged itself in Mirai's mind like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples outward.
The doctor seemed to notice the way her shoulders tensed.
"You're not obligated to see the screen if you don't want to," she said. "Some people find it too much. Others need to see to understand. We'll go at your pace."
Mirai looked at Yuuto.
His face was calm, but his hands were clasped loosely in front of him in that way he did when he was holding back a lot.
"I…" Mirai took a breath. "I want to see. I think… if I look away now, I'll always feel like I ran from the truth."
The doctor nodded once, approving.
"Brave," she said softly. "All right. Follow me."
The gel was colder than Mirai expected.
She lay on the small bed, shirt lifted just enough, eyes fixed on the ceiling as the doctor moved the probe gently across her lower abdomen.
Yuuto sat in a chair near the bed, close enough that Mirai could see his knee bouncing slightly if she turned her head.
The machine beside them hummed softly, the screen flickering with gray, grainy shapes that didn't yet make sense to her.
"Relax your stomach if you can," the doctor said. "It'll be more comfortable."
Relax.
Easier said than done.
Mirai focused on the feeling of the bed under her, the faint squeak of the wheels when she'd climbed on, the doctor's calm breathing.
The doctor's eyes narrowed in concentration as she adjusted the angle.
"Here," she murmured. "Do you see that small… darker area?"
Mirai turned her head toward the screen.
It was like looking into fog. Static and blurs. But as the doctor moved the probe slightly, a small shape came into focus—a tiny, flickering dot within a small, darker circle.
Her own breath caught.
"That's the gestational sac," the doctor said. "And that little flicker…"
She adjusted the machine settings.
"…is likely the heartbeat."
The room seemed to shrink around that word.
Mirai stared.
The dot was so small. So absurdly small. It didn't look like a baby. It didn't look like anything recognizable, just a tiny pulsing light in a sea of gray.
"Would you like to hear it?" the doctor asked gently.
Mirai's eyes widened.
"You… can?" she breathed.
"Most likely," the doctor said. "You're a bit early, but that flicker usually means we can."
She looked at Mirai carefully.
"But only if you're sure," she added. "It can be… very emotional. Some people aren't ready."
Mirai swallowed.
Yuuto's voice reached her from beside the bed.
"You don't have to," he said. "Seriously. Don't think about anyone else. If it's too much, it's okay to say no."
Mirai's eyes never left the screen.
That tiny light. Moving. Beating.
"I want to hear," she whispered.
The doctor nodded.
"Okay," she said softly.
She pressed a few buttons.
For a moment, there was nothing but the buzzing hum of the machine.
Then, suddenly, the room was filled with a rapid, rhythmic sound.
Thudthudthudthudthud.
Fast. Fragile. Relentless.
It didn't sound like her own heartbeat. It was too quick, too determined, like a small engine refusing to stall.
Mirai's mouth fell open slightly.
"That's…" Her voice broke. "That's…?"
"The heartbeat," the doctor said. "Very early. But strong."
The world fell away.
There was no school, no neighbors, no boy with cold words, no parents' shouting echoing in her skull.
There was just that sound.
A life that didn't know about shame. Or mistakes. Or how unwanted it was by some.
A life that existed anyway.
Mirai's eyes blurred.
Her hand, still resting on the side of her stomach, pressed slightly harder, as if reaching.
"I didn't… I didn't know it would sound like that," she whispered. "I thought it would be… softer. Fainter."
"It's small," the doctor said. "But it's stubborn, like most of them."
Yuuto sat very still.
The sound hit him in a place he hadn't known existed. Intellectually, he'd known. Of course he had. Biology lessons, diagrams, charts. Babies start forming, hearts start beating at a certain week, all of that.
But knowing something in a classroom and hearing it in a small room where your little sister lies on a bed are different universes.
He watched the screen.
That tiny flicker.
He listened to the sound.
Thudthudthudthudthud.
It was absurd, really.
This… little thing.
He thought of the boy who had said handle it. The parents who had said get rid of it. The way they'd spoken as if it were paperwork to be shredded or trash to be taken out.
He looked at his sister's face.
Tears ran silently down her temples, disappearing into her hair.
Her expression wasn't happy. It wasn't peaceful.
It was something raw and tangled—fear, awe, sadness, guilt, and a fragile kind of wonder all knotted together.
Her hand reached slightly toward him, fingers searching.
He didn't hesitate.
He took it, lacing his fingers through her cold ones, squeezing gently.
"I hear it," she whispered.
"I do too," he replied, voice low, throat tight.
The heartbeat continued.
For a moment, Yuuto imagined it not as a sound, but as a question.
Will you fight for me?
Will you protect me, even though I didn't ask to be here?
He didn't know what the future would demand of him.
More shifts. Less sleep. Changed plans. Conversations he wasn't trained for.
But in that moment, with the sound filling the small room, one thought crystallized in his mind:
I can't be the kind of man who walks away from this.
He squeezed Mirai's hand once more.
The doctor, sensing the weight in the room, adjusted the volume slightly lower.
"We'll turn it off now," she said quietly. "You've heard enough for today, I think."
When the sound faded, the silence it left behind felt enormous.
Mirai blinked, tears spilling sideways.
The doctor handed her a tissue.
"You're approximately eight weeks along," she said, tone returning to professional, but still gentle. "Early, but stable, from what I can see. We'll run some blood tests as well. For now, you need to rest more, eat properly, and avoid too much stress if you can."
Mirai let out a shaky breath at the last part.
"Avoid stress," she repeated weakly. "That… might be difficult."
The doctor's mouth twitched in a faint, sympathetic smile.
"I won't lie to you," she said. "The months ahead won't be easy. Especially at your age. People will have opinions. Some of them will be cruel. But I want you to remember something: what is happening inside you is not a crime. It is a consequence of choices, yes, but it is also a life. You have the right to be treated as a person, not just a cautionary tale."
Mirai swallowed hard.
"I don't… feel strong enough for all that," she whispered.
The doctor looked at her for a long moment, then glanced briefly at Yuuto.
"You don't have to be," she said. "Not alone. That's why it's good he's here."
She wrote something on a paper, then slid it toward them.
"This is your basic report," she said. "You can show it to your parents if you want. Or not, if you're not ready. But they'll need to know eventually. This is not something you can hide forever. And frankly, you shouldn't have to."
Her eyes softened, lines near them deepening.
"Children are not meant to carry everything alone," she added. "Even when they're about to become parents themselves."
The sentence landed in Mirai's chest like a weight and a strange, faint comfort.
Children.
Parents.
There was a bitter irony there that she wasn't ready to unravel.
But somewhere beneath the ache, a small voice whispered:
You're still someone's child.
She took the tissue, wiped her face, and pulled her shirt down as the doctor cleaned the gel away.
When she sat up, the room seemed slightly different. The walls were the same. The equipment was the same. The air still smelled the same.
But she had heard something that couldn't be unheard.
They walked home in a quiet that wasn't entirely heavy.
The sky was bright, the afternoon sun cool but gentle. People walked past—the usual scattered stream of strangers carrying groceries, backpacks, briefcases. No one looked at them twice.
Mirai held the folded clinic paper in her hands. It felt too thin to hold something so significant.
After a while, she spoke.
"Yuuto," she said.
"Yeah?"
"When I heard it…" She hesitated. "For a moment, I hated myself for not wanting to hear it sooner."
He looked at her, frowning slightly.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
She stared ahead, watching her shadow move on the pavement.
"I kept thinking," she said, "if I just keep it vague, if I don't see or hear anything, maybe I can pretend this isn't real. That it's just… a problem on paper. A word. 'Pregnant'. Not… a person. Not something with a heartbeat."
She swallowed.
"But then… hearing it… it made me feel trapped and relieved at the same time. Trapped, because now I know. I can't go back to thinking it's just a mistake to be erased. And relieved because… because at least something is clear now."
"Which part is clear?" he asked gently.
"That it exists," she said. "That I can't pretend it doesn't. That whatever I choose from now on… I'm choosing for someone who's already here in some way."
Her voice shook.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough to be a mother," she whispered. "I don't even know what I'll be doing next year. I don't know how to face school, or people, or… or the future. All I know is that I don't want to be like them."
"Them?" he asked, even though he knew.
"The ones who said erase it," she murmured. "Like it's a stain. I can't be that. Even if I hate myself for making the mistake that put it here."
The wind lifted a strand of her hair. She tucked it behind her ear absently.
"I'm scared," she said again.
"I know," he replied.
"Am I… selfish," she asked, "for wanting to protect it when I'm the one who failed to protect myself?"
He shook his head immediately.
"Wanting to protect something small and helpless doesn't sound selfish to me," he said quietly. "If anything, it sounds like the first step away from selfishness."
She didn't answer.
They walked a few more steps.
"Mirai," he added, "whatever you decide… will change your life. That's just reality. But I believe something."
"What?" she asked.
"That you'll make that decision while thinking about the baby and everyone around you," he said. "Not just yourself. That's who you are."
He gave her a sidelong look.
"And whoever tells you you're selfish for that," he added, "can come talk to me."
Her mouth twitched again.
"You're going to end up fighting the whole world like this," she murmured.
"Then the world should stop picking fights with my sister," he replied.
When they reached their house, Mirai paused at the gate.
The building looked the same as always. The small balcony. The curtains in the windows. The potted plant that their mother often forgot to water. Nothing about it betrayed the fact that everyone inside had changed in some way.
Her fingers tightened on the paper.
"Do we… show them?" she asked.
Yuuto looked at the house, then at her.
"Do you want to?" he asked.
She thought about her mother's trembling voice that morning. Her father's heavy silence. The shouting. The fear. The apology that wasn't fully formed yet but had started in small gestures.
She thought about the heartbeat.
"I don't want to hide it anymore," she said quietly. "Hiding it made everything worse. For them. For me."
He nodded slowly.
"Then," he said, "we show them."
He opened the door.
Inside, the clock ticked.
The TV was off. Again. Her mother sat at the table, a cup of tea untouched in front of her. Her father had just returned, tie loosened, jacket draped over a chair.
They both looked up when Yuuto and Mirai stepped in.
Their gazes instinctively searched her face, then flickered down briefly, as if afraid of their own thoughts, then back up again.
Mirai's heart pounded.
She stepped forward, the paper in her hand feeling like both a shield and a confession.
"I…" Her voice shook. She steadied it. "We went to the clinic."
Her mother's fingers tightened around her cup.
"How… was it?" she asked.
Mirai swallowed.
She could have just said "they confirmed it." That would have been enough. Clinical. Simple. Safe.
But the sound in that small room was still echoing in her chest.
"They confirmed," she said. "I'm about eight weeks."
Her father nodded slowly, trying to process.
"And…" Mirai added, fingers trembling. "We… heard the heartbeat."
The sentence dropped into the living room like a stone into water.
Her mother's eyes widened.
"Heartbeat…?" she repeated.
Mirai nodded.
"Yes," she whispered. "It's… very small. But… strong."
Her throat burned.
"It's not just… a word anymore," she said. "It's real."
Her father's jaw clenched. His gaze slid to the side for a moment, as if looking straight at her was too much.
"And how… do you feel about that?" he asked, voice rough.
Mirai looked down at the paper, then up again.
"Scared," she answered honestly. "Overwhelmed. Guilty. But… also… I don't want to pretend it's nothing. Or that it doesn't exist."
Her hands shook harder.
"I don't know what the right choice is," she said. "I don't know what will happen with school, or the future, or anything. But I know… if something happens to it because I was too afraid to speak, I'll never forgive myself."
She looked at them, eyes shimmering.
"I came to you," she said, "because I don't… know how to carry this alone. Not just the baby. The fear. The decisions. The shame. I can't do it by myself."
Her mother covered her mouth, tears spilling over.
Her father stared at her for a long, long moment.
Then, slowly, he stood.
He walked around the table, each step heavy.
Mirai's body tensed instinctively, bracing for another wave of anger.
He stopped in front of her.
For a second, they just looked at each other—father and daughter, both seeing someone they didn't entirely recognize anymore.
Then he did something he hadn't done in years.
He reached out and pulled her into an awkward, stiff hug.
It wasn't smooth. His arms didn't quite know where to go. His hands settled between her shoulder blades, fingers spreading as if afraid to grip too tightly.
Mirai froze.
"Dad…?" she whispered, stunned.
His voice came from above her, low and rough.
"I don't know how to handle this," he admitted. "I'm afraid. I'm angry. I'm disappointed—in you, in myself, in the world that let this happen."
Her chest tightened.
"But," he said, "I am more afraid… of you thinking you have no one."
Her breath hitched.
"I said terrible things yesterday," he continued. "Your mother too. Some part of me was thinking more about what people would say when they looked at me than what my own daughter needed when she looked at me."
His arms tightened slightly.
"That's not the father I want to be," he said. "That's not the man I thought I was."
Tears welled in Mirai's eyes again—different from the night before.
"I can't promise I won't make mistakes," he said. "I can't promise I know what the right path is from here. But I want you to know this: you are my child. That hasn't changed. That won't change."
Her shoulders shook.
"Even if the whole neighborhood points and whispers," he added. "Even if my colleagues talk behind my back. Even if our relatives gossip for years. I will live with that before I let you think you are nothing but a stain on our family."
The words broke something open inside her.
She clung to him, fingers twisting into his shirt.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry—"
"No," he said quietly, firm. "You've apologized enough. Now we have to start thinking about what to do. Together."
Her mother stood up too, tears streaming freely now.
She stepped closer, hand trembling as she reached out to touch Mirai's hair.
"I don't know how to be the right mother in this situation," she whispered. "But I know how to love my child. I just… forgot to show it."
She swallowed.
"I won't pretend I'm not still worried," she said. "About money. About school. About what happens after the baby is born. But I'll try… not to let that worry become a weapon I aim at you."
Yuuto watched from the side.
He didn't move forward. He didn't speak. This moment was theirs—parents and daughter, trying to stitch something back together with shaking hands.
But his chest ached in a strange, deep way.
Pride. Relief. Exhaustion.
The house sounded different now.
The same clock. The same furniture. The same walls.
But the words spoken inside it had changed.
They were still clumsy. Still incomplete. Still tangled with fear and shame.
But they had shifted direction.
Blame was no longer the only language.
There was something else now:
We.
Together.
My daughter.
My child.
Later, when Mirai lay in bed again, staring at the ceiling with swollen eyes and a heart that felt like it might fall apart and hold together at the same time, she placed her hand on her stomach again.
The echo of that sound from the clinic returned.
Thudthudthudthudthud.
Her family's voices overlapped with it—Yuuto's steady promises, her mother's trembling regrets, her father's rough vows.
She still didn't know what the future would look like.
The road ahead was still long and full of shadows.
But for the first time since the line appeared, she could see the vague outline of figures walking beside her—not in front, not behind.
Beside.
She closed her eyes.
"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered into the quiet. "But I'm not alone anymore."
And for now—just for this small moment—that was enough to let her breathe without drowning in her own fear.