The next morning, Mirai watched the steam rise from her miso soup and tried to pretend her hands weren't shaking.
It was a quiet morning—the kind that, on any other day, would have felt almost peaceful. The sky outside was a soft gray, not fully committed to rain or sun. The clock ticked steadily above the kitchen doorway. The refrigerator hummed.
Her school bag sat by the door.
Today, she wouldn't be wearing it into the classroom.
She would be carrying it into the office.
"Eat a little more," her mother said, sitting across from her. "You fainted yesterday."
"I'm trying," Mirai murmured.
She took another sip of soup. Her stomach protested softly, then accepted it. It wasn't exactly hunger she felt—more like a responsibility.
You need to take care of your body now. More than ever.
Her mother's gaze kept flickering to her and away again, as if afraid of looking too long.
Her father adjusted his tie for the third time that morning.
"Are you both ready?" he asked. "We shouldn't be late."
Yuuto walked in, still pulling his hoodie on, hair slightly damp.
"Ready," he said. He glanced at Mirai. "You?"
She set the bowl down carefully.
"No," she said. "But I'll go anyway."
His lips tugged up a little at the corner.
"Good answer," he said.
The walk to school had never felt so long.
Usually she took the train. Today, because the meeting was later in the morning and they weren't rushing to make homeroom, they walked from the station together.
Three adults and one student.
It should have looked ordinary—parents attending some routine school meeting. In any other situation, Mirai might have imagined someone asking, "Oh, is it about university plans? Is she getting a recommendation?"
Her chest tightened at the thought.
Nobody would ask that now.
They passed small shops she'd seen a thousand times—the bakery with its warm smell of bread, the corner store with faded posters, the old apartment building where laundry flapped on a rusted balcony. Ordinary scenes that belonged to an ordinary life.
"You don't have to talk in there if you don't want to," her father said suddenly, eyes forward. "We can… handle it."
Mirai shook her head.
"It's… about me," she said softly. "If I don't say anything at all, it'll feel like I'm just… letting people speak over my life."
He nodded, jaw tight.
"I'll speak when I can," she added. "If I can't, then… please. Help me."
He exhaled.
"That," he said, "I can do."
Yuuto walked on her other side, hands in his pockets, expression calm but eyes alert.
"What if…" Mirai started, then stopped.
"What if?" he prompted gently.
"What if they say I'm… bad for the school?" she whispered. "A bad example. A problem they don't want to deal with."
Yuuto didn't answer right away.
"Then," he said finally, "we'll remind them you're not a rumor. You're a person. And school is for people, not reputations."
Her chest loosened just a little.
The school gate looked different when you approached it with parents flanking you.
Students milled around, some already inside, some lingering outside to chat. A few glanced curiously at the small group of three adults and one uniformed girl, then looked away.
No one knew yet.
But they would soon. One way or another, the truth seeped.
Mirai could feel their eyes like the first drops of rain before a storm.
"We're here to see the vice-principal," her father told the woman at the reception desk near the office. "We have a meeting scheduled."
She checked a list and nodded.
"Yes, we've been expecting you," she said. "Please wait a moment. I'll let them know you've arrived."
They sat on a bench outside the staff room.
Mirai tried not to wring her hands.
Through the glass panel, she could see teachers moving around—pouring coffee, moving papers, talking. Her homeroom teacher stood by a desk, speaking with someone she recognized as the school counselor.
The school nurse walked past the door, then back again, spotting them through the glass.
She stepped out.
"Good morning," she said gently. "Mirai-chan. And… you must be her family?"
"Yes," Mirai's father replied, standing. "Thank you for taking care of her yesterday."
The nurse shook her head.
"That's my job," she said. Then, looking at Mirai, "How are you feeling today?"
"A bit embarrassed," Mirai admitted. "But… better."
"Embarrassed is normal," the nurse said. "Just don't let it stop you from asking for help next time. Fainting on purpose would be a weird hobby."
The tiny joke loosened something in Mirai's chest.
The nurse turned to her parents.
"I've spoken to her homeroom teacher and the vice-principal," she said. "They want to understand the situation and what support is necessary. I'll be there too."
Yuuto's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"Thank you," he said.
The nurse gave him a small, knowing nod, as if she recognized the weight he was carrying without him having to say it.
"Let's go in," she said.
The meeting room was smaller than Mirai expected.
Just a rectangular table, a few chairs around it, a whiteboard, and a window looking out over the courtyard where students sometimes sat to eat lunch.
Inside already sat:
Her homeroom teacher, hands folded, expression carefully neutral.
The vice-principal, an older man with thinning hair and a serious face.
The school counselor, a woman with a notebook open in front of her.
The air felt heavier here—not from anger, but from the collective sense that everyone knew this would not be a simple conversation.
"Thank you for coming," the vice-principal said, standing. "Please, have a seat."
Mirai sat between her parents. Yuuto took a seat at the end of the table, almost like he was bridging the space between the family and the staff.
The nurse took the last chair near the counselor.
For a second, there was only the faint buzz of the fluorescent light.
Then the vice-principal spoke.
"We're here," he said, "because we all care about Mirai-san's well-being and future. Let's start with that understanding."
Mirai blinked.
She had expected something colder. Something more like, "This is a problem we need to address."
He folded his hands.
"The nurse informed us of her… health condition," he continued. "And Mirai-san confirmed it. Is it true that you're around eight weeks along?"
Mirai swallowed.
"Yes," she said, voice soft but steady. "We went to a clinic."
Her homeroom teacher looked down briefly, then met her eyes again.
"Why didn't you tell us earlier?" he asked, not accusing, but genuinely wondering.
She looked at her hands in her lap.
"Because I was afraid," she murmured. "I thought… if I said it out loud, you'd all see me as something… shameful. A warning for other students. Not as… me."
The room was very still for a moment.
The counselor spoke next, her voice calm.
"Mirai-san," she said, "do you want to continue studying here?"
The question was simple. The weight behind it was not.
"Yes," Mirai replied without hesitation. "I don't know if I can come every day, but… I don't want this to be the end of my education."
Her mother's eyes glistened briefly with pride and fear.
The vice-principal nodded slowly.
"That is… an important point," he said. "We are not in the business of throwing students away."
Her father's shoulders dropped a fraction.
"However," the vice-principal continued, "we must also consider safety, practicality, and the school environment."
There it was.
Mirai's stomach clenched.
"Let's talk about the basics first," the nurse said, stepping in before the silence could twist. "She fainted yesterday. That is our immediate concern. Her body is under strain. Long hours, full days, and stress will make this more frequent."
She looked at Mirai.
"You can't just push through everything anymore," she said. "Your body will force you to stop if you don't."
Mirai nodded reluctantly.
Her homeroom teacher sighed.
"When you nearly collapsed in class, Mirai," he said, "some students were frightened. But they were also… concerned. You've always been one of the steady ones in the room. Seeing you fall shook them."
He paused.
"It shook me," he admitted.
She hadn't expected that.
"We have a few options," the counselor said, opening her notebook. "None are perfect, but they are possibilities."
She lifted her pen.
"First," she said, "we can try to keep Mirai-san in regular attendance for now, but with accommodations: no physical education, permission to visit the nurse whenever needed, possibly shorter days if she feels unwell."
"Second," she continued, "if her condition—or the pregnancy—progresses to a point where attending daily becomes unsafe, there is a system for temporary leave and part-time attendance, with materials sent home and periodic meetings to keep her on track to graduate later."
She glanced at Mirai and her parents.
"Third," she said, "some families choose to have the student withdraw quietly and pursue later alternatives: correspondence high school, exams as an external candidate, etc. This is the most drastic measure—and one we don't want to push if it's not her wish."
Her parents stiffened at the word "withdraw," but the counselor's tone didn't carry the hint of suggestion—only description.
The vice-principal looked at Mirai directly.
"What do you want?" he asked. "Not what you think we want. Not what you think your parents want. What do you want, Mirai-san?"
Her throat tightened.
What do I want?
I want to go back to before.
I want this to have never happened.
I want to be just a student again.
But the heartbeat had changed the shape of that wish.
"I want… to stay," she said quietly. "As long as I safely can. I want to finish. Even if I have to finish slower than everyone else."
Her fingers tightened on the edge of her skirt.
"I don't want every part of my life to be defined by this mistake," she added, voice trembling. "I know it will change everything. I know I'll never be 'normal' like before. But I don't want to disappear either."
Her mother reached out under the table and squeezed her hand.
The vice-principal exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath.
"All right," he said. "Then that is the direction we will try to support."
Her father blinked, surprised.
"You… will?" he asked.
The vice-principal looked at him.
"We are an educational institution," he said. "Not a court. She has made a serious mistake, yes. But that doesn't erase her right to learn."
He glanced at the nurse and counselor.
"We will likely need to handle this case quietly but properly," he added. "To avoid unnecessary cruelty from other students and to prevent rumors from swirling out of control."
"R–rumors…" Mirai whispered.
The counselor nodded sympathetically.
"Teenagers talk," she said. "Adults too. We can't seal that completely. But we can decide how much information is shared officially, and we can control how staff respond."
The nurse cleared her throat.
"I'd like to say something… as someone who sees students at their worst moments," she said. "I've seen girls your age come in alone, hiding tests in their bags, shaking so badly they can't even hold a pen. Some don't tell their families until it's too late. Some don't tell anyone at all."
She looked at Mirai.
"You told your family," she said. "Now you're telling your school. That's more courageous than you think."
Mirai's eyes burned.
"I was… forced to," she murmured. "My body forced me."
The nurse smiled gently.
"Sometimes bravery is just… not running when you want to," she said. "You didn't have to be honest with me yesterday. You could have lied. You didn't."
The room felt a little less cold.
The homeroom teacher spoke up again.
"As your teacher," he said, "I admit—I'm… conflicted. When I heard, my first thought was, 'How could this happen to one of my best students?'"
He paused, looking ashamed.
"But that's the wrong question," he said. "Students are not exam scores with legs. You're human. You made a mistake. That doesn't erase the work you've done until now."
He massaged his forehead.
"I will support you," he said. "I can help arrange notes, adjust deadlines, talk to other teachers quietly. But we need to be honest with each other. If you feel unwell, you must tell us. No more pretending you're okay when you're about to fall."
Mirai nodded, throat thick.
"I'll… try," she whispered.
Yuuto had been quiet so far, listening.
Now, he spoke.
"I have a question," he said.
Everyone's attention shifted to him.
"It's more like… a request," he corrected.
The vice-principal nodded. "Go ahead."
Yuuto's voice was calm, but there was something firm under it—like steel wrapped in cloth.
"Please don't treat her as a warning sign," he said. "I know some schools do that. They point at a girl like her and say, 'This is what happens when you're careless.' They make her sit in the back like a stain."
His hands were folded, knuckles pale.
"She already knows she made a mistake," he continued. "She hears it when she tries to sleep. She doesn't need posters and speeches to remind her. What she does need is a chance to still be… Mirai. Not 'that pregnant girl'."
The counselor watched him with a thoughtful expression.
"We'll do our best," she said. "I won't pretend every teacher here is perfect. Some will think exactly the way you fear. But we can set the tone. And I can speak to classes about kindness without using her as an example."
The nurse added softly:
"And if any student comes to me with cruel gossip, I will shut it down. Quickly."
A flicker of gratitude passed over Yuuto's face.
"Thank you," he said.
The vice-principal looked at Mirai again.
"You're not obligated to tell your classmates," he said. "Not yet. That choice is yours. You may find that one or two people you trust can help shield you from others. But that must be on your terms."
Kana's face flashed in her mind.
Her careful gaze.
Her awkward, sincere offer: "If you don't feel well, you can message me, you know."
"I… might tell one friend," Mirai said quietly. "Later. When I can say it without… breaking apart."
"That sounds reasonable," the counselor nodded.
They talked for a while longer.
About logistics. About a doctor's note to excuse her from PE. About allowing her to come late on days when mornings were rough. About the possibility of switching to half-days later, and how they would handle exams when the time came.
Each detail felt strange—like planning a trip to a place she hadn't wanted to go.
But under the strangeness, something else quietly grew.
Structure.
A path.
Not smooth. Not easy. But visible.
At the end of the meeting, the vice-principal spoke one last time, more softly than before.
"One more thing," he said. "There may be some who say, 'This is a bad influence. Other girls will see and think it's okay.'"
He paused.
"I don't believe that," he said. "Fear doesn't prevent mistakes. It only drives them into the dark. What prevents the worst outcomes is… support, education, and the courage to face consequences."
He looked at Mirai.
"Thank you," he said, "for trusting us enough to sit here."
Her eyes filled.
"Thank you… for listening," she replied.
Outside, the air felt different.
Sharper. Brighter. Colder.
Mirai stood just beyond the school gate, the building behind her now holding not just classrooms and corridors, but also the echo of a room where adults had said her name and she hadn't been reduced to a problem.
Her parents beside her were quiet.
Her father adjusted his tie again, though he wasn't going back to work yet.
"That went… better than I expected," he admitted.
Her mother nodded, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
"They didn't… look at you like a disgrace," she said to Mirai. "They looked at you like… a student. A person."
Mirai let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"I'm glad the nurse was there," she said. "I don't think I could have done that without her."
Her mother slipped an arm around her shoulders, cautiously, as if afraid to break something fragile.
"We're proud of you," she whispered.
The words felt strange in Mirai's ears. Heavy. Healing.
Yuuto stood a little apart, looking back at the building.
"You okay?" he asked her.
Mirai thought about it.
"I'm… tired," she said. "But… a different kind of tired than yesterday."
"How so?" he asked.
"Yesterday was… like standing in the middle of a storm alone," she said slowly. "Today feels more like… carrying a heavy backpack on a long road. Still hard. But… I can see where my feet are going."
He smiled faintly.
"That's progress," he said.
She looked up at the school again.
"It's strange," she murmured. "I always thought… if the school found out, that would be the end. But it's not. It's just… the next step."
"Yeah," he said softly. "Sometimes the thing you're most afraid of is actually the door to the help you needed."
She reached out and squeezed his sleeve.
"You said something… strong in there," she said. "About not using me as a warning sign."
He shrugged, looking away.
"I just… said what I was thinking," he replied. "If they turn you into a poster, I'll burn the poster."
"Yuuto," their father warned automatically, but there was no real scolding in it.
He just sighed.
"I never imagined I'd be grateful to a school meeting for making me feel… less alone in this," he said. "But here we are."
They started walking.
The city moved around them—cars passing, people chatting, children tugging at their parents' hands.
At a crosswalk, they stopped and waited for the light to change.
Mirai watched a little boy across the street point excitedly at a dog. The dog wagged its tail, pulling its owner slightly forward.
Eight weeks, she thought.
Just a flicker on a screen. Just a heartbeat in a room. Just a weight she couldn't see, only feel in waves of nausea and exhaustion and fear.
But someday…
Someday, if everything went well, that heartbeat would be a person standing at a crosswalk like this, pointing at dogs, tugging at someone's hand.
"Hey," Yuuto said suddenly, voice low enough that only she could hear. "One more thing about today."
"What?" she asked.
"You did well," he said simply. "In there. Speaking. Not hiding. Facing them."
Her throat tightened.
"You always say I'm strong," she whispered. "I don't feel strong. I just… don't see any choice but to keep walking."
He nodded.
"That's exactly what strength looks like," he said.
The light turned green.
They crossed.
The world carried on as if nothing had changed.
But for Mirai, something had.
Her secret was no longer completely hidden. It was held now—in the hands of her family, in the understanding of a nurse, in the cautious, imperfect support of a school.
The road ahead was still terrifying. People would still talk. Pain would still come.
But as she walked between her parents and beside her brother, the image that had haunted her—the one of herself walking alone through endless corridors—began to fade.
In its place, slowly, another image settled.
The same corridor.
The same long road.
But this time, when the world leaned closer to judge,
she would not be the only one standing.