By the middle of the week, Mirai had learned a new kind of exhaustion.
Not the late–night–studying, eyes–dry–from–reading exhaustion she used to know. This one lived deeper, like someone had quietly replaced her bones with something heavier. Every movement cost just a little more than it used to.
The mornings were the worst.
Some days she could eat breakfast. Some days just the smell of miso made something roil in her stomach. Her mother had started keeping plain crackers on the table, pretending it was just a new habit.
"Try a few," she would say lightly. "Better than going on an empty stomach."
Mirai understood what she meant.
Better for you.
Better for the small heartbeat you visited two days ago.
That sound still echoed somewhere inside her when the world was quiet.
Today, her stomach had allowed a few bites of rice, some tea, a cracker. Not enough, but more than nothing.
"You sure you can manage?" Yuuto had asked at the door, bag over his shoulder, hair still damp from a rushed shower.
"I have to go," she'd said. "If I stop going now, it'll just be harder to return."
He'd looked at her for a long beat, then nodded.
"Text me if anything feels off," he said. "Anything."
She had smiled, small and brave.
"I'll be okay," she'd lied.
By third period, the lie began to fray.
The classroom was too warm. The heater hummed in the corner, doing its job a little too well. Sunlight filtered through the window, making the air feel thicker than usual. Chalk dust floated lazily in the beam that fell across her desk.
The math teacher's voice scratched across the board as he wrote formulas and explanations. Mirai's notebook lay open, pen in hand, but the numbers blurred.
Her stomach churned.
Not violently like she might throw up immediately. Just an insistent, rolling nausea that made the edges of her vision feel slightly wrong. Her head felt light and heavy at the same time, as if it were filled with something warm and slow.
She swallowed, trying to steady herself.
You're fine.
Breathe.
You've sat through hundreds of classes. Just one more.
She pressed the pen harder against the paper to anchor herself, writing down the equation even as her eyes struggled to focus.
"Mirai," the teacher called.
She flinched.
"Yes?" Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
"Can you solve this step?" he asked, pointing to the board.
The question should have been easy. The kind of problem she used to solve automatically, even half-asleep.
She stared at the numbers, willing her brain to click.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then, slowly, the answer rose from somewhere under the fog.
She stood on unsteady legs, knees protesting. Her vision swayed for a second, the room tilting almost imperceptibly. She gripped the edge of her desk.
Step by step.
She walked to the board, took the chalk, and started writing.
Each line appeared slightly crooked, but correct. She could hear the faint scratching of the chalk and her own heart in her ears.
Done.
She stepped back.
"Good," the teacher said. "As expected from you."
The class murmured vaguely in agreement.
She turned to walk back to her seat.
The distance from board to desk felt longer than she remembered.
Halfway there, her stomach flipped again, harder this time. A cold wave swept through her limbs, leaving them hollow.
The classroom lights seemed too bright.
A distant buzzing crept into her ears.
Her hand reached out blindly for the side of a desk—
"Oi, Mirai?"
Kana's voice, surprised.
Her fingers missed.
The floor rushed up.
The last thing she registered before everything went dark around the edges was the chorus of chairs scraping, someone calling her name, and the teacher's sharp "Mirai!"
When she opened her eyes, the ceiling was different.
White. Plain. A faint crack running along one corner. The smell of antiseptic and somewhere faintly, herbs.
The nurse's office.
She recognized the stiff pillow under her head, the softness of the infirmary blanket, the slight chill of the room.
"Ah. You're awake."
A woman's face appeared above her, framed by short, practical hair and gentle eyes. The school nurse. She'd come here a few times before—for headaches, a twisted ankle in first year, once when she'd walked into a pole because she'd been reading while walking.
But never like this.
Mirai tried to sit up.
"Careful," the nurse said, placing a hand on her shoulder to ease her back. "Move slowly. You scared your classmates."
"What… happened?" Mirai asked. Her voice was hoarse.
"You tell me," the nurse replied calmly. "You stood up, solved a problem like always, took a few steps, then decided the floor looked more attractive than your desk."
Despite everything, Mirai's lips twitched.
"Sorry," she whispered.
"You students apologize for fainting like it's a crime," the nurse sighed. "Here. Drink this first."
She held out a small paper cup.
Water.
Mirai took it with trembling hands, sipping slowly. The cool liquid steadied her a little.
"How do you feel now?" the nurse asked.
"Just… weak," Mirai said. "A little dizzy. My stomach's been… weird."
"How long has it been weird?" The nurse's tone stayed casual, almost conversational.
"A while," Mirai admitted.
"Eating properly?" the nurse asked.
Mirai hesitated.
Trying.
Failing some days.
Forcing things down on others.
"Sometimes," she said.
The nurse watched her carefully.
"You know," she said slowly, "I see a lot of students come in here for all kinds of reasons. Headaches. Stomach aches. Period cramps. Anxiety. Some of them try very hard to pretend it's nothing. Especially the ones who are… carrying more than they say."
Mirai's fingers tightened around the cup.
The nurse's gaze was kind but unflinching.
"I'm not here to judge you," she continued. "That's not my job. My job is to keep you safe while you're at school, and sometimes that means noticing things no one else wants to say."
Mirai swallowed.
She could lie.
She could say she hadn't been sleeping, that exams stressed her out, that she'd skipped breakfast.
All technically true.
All incomplete.
The nurse's voice softened.
"Would it be easier if I asked this directly?" she said. "Are you… pregnant, Mirai-chan?"
The word landed in the small room, familiar and still sharp, like a bruise touched.
Mirai's throat closed.
For a moment, she considered denying it.
The lie burned before it even formed.
"Yes," she whispered.
The nurse didn't flinch. She inhaled slowly through her nose, then nodded.
"Thank you for telling me," she said.
"Do you… have to tell everyone?" Mirai asked, panic rising. "The whole staff? The students…?"
"Calm down," the nurse said gently, patting the blanket near her arm. "We're not going to make an announcement over the PA system."
Her lips quirked, trying to ease Mirai's tension.
"I am obligated to inform your homeroom teacher," she added, voice more serious. "And likely the counselor. But this isn't something to gossip about. It's something to manage."
The word manage sounded strange mixed with pregnant, but better than problem or scandal.
"Listen," the nurse went on. "Fainting once could be nothing. Combination of warm classroom, low blood sugar, anxiety. But in your condition, it's a sign we need to be more careful. Your body is under extra strain. You can't treat it like before."
Mirai stared at her hands.
"What if I… just try harder?" she asked weakly. "Sleep more, eat better, and keep going like normal?"
The nurse shook her head.
"You can try," she said. "But I don't recommend it. At some point, your body will make choices for you if you don't make them yourself. That fainting spell was a warning."
Fear fluttered in Mirai's chest.
"We only have a few months left of school," she said quietly. "I want to… finish. Properly. Like everyone else."
The nurse's expression softened.
"I understand," she said. "Really. But you have more than one future to think about now. Yours, and the baby's."
Mirai's hand moved unconsciously to her stomach under the blanket.
"What am I supposed to do?" she whispered.
The nurse was quiet for a moment.
"First," she said, "you need to stop carrying this completely alone."
"I'm not completely alone," Mirai murmured. "My family… knows. My brother… he's helped me."
"That's good," the nurse nodded. "But I mean here, in this building. You're trying to walk these halls and sit in these desks pretending you're like everyone else. That's going to get harder. And more dangerous."
She met Mirai's eyes.
"I think it's time we talk seriously with your homeroom teacher," she said. "And maybe the school counselor or vice-principal. Not to punish you. To plan. Reduced hours. Rest periods. Maybe a modified schedule. There are options."
Mirai's first instinct was resistance.
Tell the school.
Let them see her.
Let them add labels on top of her name.
Her stomach flipped again, for reasons that had nothing to do with nausea.
"They'll judge me," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "They'll see me differently."
The nurse didn't deny it.
"Some might," she said plainly. "That's the sad truth. Adults can be just as cruel as teenagers, just more quiet about it."
Her tone carried no bitterness—just tired experience.
"But some will try to help," she added. "And you need help now more than you need secrecy."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Let me ask you something," she said. "Do you think your brother wants you to faint in class again and hit your head on the floor because you're too scared to ask for support?"
Mirai's chest tightened.
"No," she said immediately.
"Your parents?" the nurse pressed.
Mirai thought of her mother's trembling hand touching her hair, her father's rough hug.
"…No," she repeated.
"Then give them, and us, the chance to protect you properly," the nurse said firmly. "You came to us today by force. Next time, let's do it by choice."
Silence settled for a moment.
Mirai looked at her hands, then at the cracked corner of the ceiling.
She was tired of pretending. Of holding everything inside until her body decided it had had enough.
"Will you…" she began, then stopped. "Will you be there when I talk to the teacher?"
The nurse's expression softened.
"If you want me to," she said, "yes."
Mirai nodded, a small, shaky motion.
"Okay," she whispered. "We can… tell him."
The decision felt huge and tiny at the same time.
A door she'd been holding closed with all her strength had cracked open. Light and exposure both seeped through.
The nurse stood.
"Rest a little longer," she said. "I'll call your homeroom teacher down. We'll talk when you're ready."
When Yuuto got the message, he was on his short break, standing behind the convenience store, drinking canned coffee that tasted vaguely like metal and memory.
His phone buzzed.
Mirai:
I fainted in class. Nurse's room now. Don't panic. I'm okay.
He stared at the screen.
His heart kicked hard.
Immediately after came another message:
She knows. About everything. Wants to talk to my teacher. With her too.
He exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb against the cool can to ground himself.
She fainted.
Even though she said "Don't panic," his mind had already drawn three horrible scenarios in the half-second before reading "I'm okay." Now it tried to replay them slower, just to punish him.
He typed back:
Are you dizzy now?
Her reply came a little slower this time.
A bit. But better than before. She gave me water.
Then, after a pause:
She's… kind.
He felt some of the tightness ease.
A kind adult. Inside the school.
That was rarer than it should have been.
I'll come after my shift, he wrote.
If they want a meeting with you + teacher + nurse + parents, tell them evenings are better. I'll be there too.
He added:
Don't be scared of telling them. You already did the hardest part with Mom and Dad.
A moment passed.
I'm still scared, she replied.
But I'm tired of hiding too.
He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
"That's my line," he muttered to the empty alley. "Being scared and doing it anyway."
His break ended too soon.
He went back inside, but his mind wasn't on the stock rotation or the register. As he scanned items and handed change, fragments of conversations played in his head—imaginary versions of what her teacher might say.
"This is irresponsible."
"You've disappointed us."
"Think of the school's reputation."
Each hypothetical sentence made his jaw clench.
By the time his shift ended, he had rehearsed at least ten ways to calmly, respectfully argue with an adult while still wanting to throw a chair.
He changed quickly, stuffed his apron into his bag, and headed straight for home.
That evening, the living room was heavier than usual, but not with anger this time.
With waiting.
Mirai sat at the table, hands around a cup of tea gone lukewarm. Her parents sat across from her. Yuuto took his usual spot slightly to the side, angled so he could see everyone.
The school had called.
First the nurse, then the homeroom teacher, then the vice-principal.
They hadn't shouted. Their voices over the phone had been measured, professional, concerned.
"We'd like to discuss how to support your daughter," the vice-principal had said. "This is a… delicate situation. We think it would be best to meet in person."
Now, they waited for tomorrow.
"They weren't… cruel," Mirai said quietly, as if saying it might conjure something harsher to balance it.
"That's good," her mother replied, fingers curled tightly around her own cup. "Better than gossiping behind our backs."
Her father let out a breath.
"I knew this day was coming," he said. "It just came faster than I thought."
Mirai stared at the tea's surface.
"I fainted," she murmured. "In front of everyone. They had to carry me to the nurse. It's… not invisible anymore."
Her voice cracked on the last words.
Yuuto watched her, then spoke.
"Maybe that's not entirely bad," he said.
She looked up, eyes shining.
"How is collapsing in class not bad?" she asked, half-bitter, half–genuinely curious.
He shrugged slightly.
"It's not good," he said. "But it forced adults to see what we already knew: you can't keep pretending nothing's happening. Your body made the announcement your mouth was too scared to."
Her father winced.
"Still," he muttered. "I didn't want your first public 'announcement' to be like that."
"We don't get to choose how reality knocks," Yuuto replied softly. "We only get to decide what we do after we open the door."
Silence settled again.
Then their mother spoke, voice small.
"I'm… glad the nurse was kind," she said. "I was afraid of her being like… his parents."
Mirai's chest tightened.
"I was afraid too," she said. "But she wasn't. She just… looked at me. Like a person. Not a warning sign."
Her father rubbed his temples.
"I don't know what the school will propose tomorrow," he said. "They might suggest you stay home. Or study on a different schedule. Or…"
"Or 'withdraw quietly'," her mother added in a low voice.
The word sat between them like a shadow.
Mirai's hands trembled.
"I don't want to drop out," she whispered. "Even if I can't attend every day. I don't want this to be the end of… everything."
Yuuto leaned forward.
"If they say something like that," he said, "we'll argue. Politely. But we will."
His eyes were steady, not just for her, but for their parents too.
"We're not asking them to pretend you're not pregnant," he continued. "We're asking them to remember she's still a student. She still has a right to learn."
His father looked at him.
"You're coming with us tomorrow," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Yuuto replied.
Their mother let out a small sigh.
"It feels strange," she murmured. "We used to go to parent–teacher conferences when you two were younger. We'd talk about grades, behavior, future plans. We never imagined…" She trailed off.
"That we'd be going to ask them to understand that your daughter is carrying a child," her father finished quietly.
Mirai's cheeks burned.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the old reflex still alive.
"No," her father said, with more strength this time. "We said, didn't we? Enough apologies. We're past that stage. Now we're in the 'what do we do with what's already true' stage."
Her throat tightened.
"Then what… do we do?" she asked.
He exhaled slowly.
"We go to the school," he said. "We sit down. We listen. We speak. We try not to let fear make us cruel. We… admit we need help."
The last sentence seemed to cost him something, but he said it anyway.
Her mother nodded, tears glistening again.
"And I…" she said, voice trembling, "will try not to shrink when they look at me. I won't lower my eyes like I've done something unspeakable by having a pregnant daughter."
She wiped her face quickly.
"I have a daughter who made a mistake," she said. "Not a crime."
Yuuto felt something in his chest relax, just a little.
Mirai stared at them, the weight of their words settling slowly.
Her fear didn't vanish.
But it changed shape.
Less like a monster in the dark. More like a storm they were choosing to walk into together, even if they still didn't know how strong the winds would be.
That night, sleep came slowly.
When it did, Mirai dreamed of hallways.
Long school corridors stretching far beyond the building's real walls. Doors all labeled with subjects—Math, English, Science—and one unmarked door glowing faintly at the end.
She walked, her footsteps sounding too loud.
Whispers wrapped around her like wind.
"She ruined her life."
"Her parents must be so ashamed."
"Can you believe she still comes to school?"
The whispers grew louder as she approached the glowing door.
Her chest hurt.
She reached for the handle, hand trembling—
A familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Hey."
She turned.
Yuuto stood halfway down the corridor, hands in his pockets, looking impossibly calm in that dream logic.
"What are you doing all the way down there alone?" he called.
"I have to," she answered, though she didn't know why. "This is my consequence. My responsibility."
He rolled his eyes faintly.
"Yeah, and? Responsibility doesn't mean isolation," he said. "Come back."
The whispers surged.
"You can't help her."
"She's already broken."
"It's too late."
He ignored them.
"Mirai," he said. His voice echoed differently, stronger. "You can walk ahead. You can face them. But at least let us walk in the same hallway."
Her hand slipped from the unmarked door's handle.
She woke with her heart pounding—and yet somehow lighter.
The house was quiet.
In the next room, she could hear the faint rhythm of Yuuto's breathing through the wall. It matched the memory of the heartbeat from the clinic in a strange, comforting way.
Two sounds.
Two lives.
One road stretching ahead.
Tomorrow, the school would tilt closer toward the truth of her.
Tomorrow, adults would react—perhaps with support, perhaps with fear disguised as rules.
But tonight, wrapped in her blanket, hand resting lightly on the curve of her abdomen, Mirai whispered into the darkness:
"I'm scared. But… I'm not running."
For the first time, the thought didn't feel like a sentence.
It felt like a choice.