The next few days tasted like waiting.
Waiting for whispers.
Waiting for stares.
Waiting for the moment when the invisible line between "everyone else" and "Mirai" would become visible.
It didn't come all at once.
It never does.
It arrived like rain. Quiet at first. A drop here. A drop there. Easy to pretend it was nothing, until suddenly your uniform is damp and you don't remember when you started getting wet.
Walking back into the classroom the day after the meeting with the school felt strangely smaller than that meeting itself.
The vice-principal had said they wouldn't announce anything. Her homeroom teacher had promised discretion.
Still, when she slid the door open to Class 3-B, every instinct in her body braced, as if someone would stand up and shout, "She's the one."
Nobody did.
The same everyday chaos hummed.
Someone laughed too loudly in the back. Someone shuffled papers. Someone complained, "I forgot my homework again, I'm dead." The usual.
"Morning," Kana said, glancing back as Mirai walked in.
"Morning," Mirai replied, a little too carefully.
She walked to her seat, aware of the way her feet felt heavier than they should, every step measured.
Her homeroom teacher entered the room a minute later.
"Everyone, sit," he said. "We're starting."
The routine unfolded:
Stand. Bow. "Good morning." Sit.
It was almost comical how normal it all seemed.
Almost.
When he started taking attendance, his voice was neutral, reading names from the list like always.
"Tanaka."
"Here."
"Suzuki."
"Here."
"Mirai."
Her heart thudded.
"Here," she answered.
His eyes flicked up for a split second, meeting hers. There was no pity there. No disappointment. Just a quiet acknowledgment that they now shared knowledge the rest of the class didn't.
He nodded once and continued.
"Yamada."
She let out a breath slowly.
Maybe… she had overestimated how dramatically the world would shift.
Sometimes it didn't crack. It just… tilted.
The first real sign of that tilt came during PE.
Or rather, during the time she was not in PE.
The school had quickly processed the doctor's note. No running. No strenuous activity. No "just a light jog, you'll be fine," which PE teachers liked to say when you tried to use cramps as an excuse.
"You can spend PE in the library, or the nurse's office, or quietly in the classroom," her homeroom teacher had explained. "As long as you're not wandering around."
"Understood," she had said.
So when the class changed into their gym clothes and headed to the field, Mirai stayed behind in her uniform, the hum of their chatter fading as the door slid shut.
The almost-empty classroom felt like an abandoned stage.
Her books sat in her bag. There was nothing she urgently needed to do. For once, no one expected anything from her in this period.
She sat by the window, watching the sky, hand resting lightly over her stomach.
"Skipping PE, huh?"
The voice made her jump.
She turned.
Kana stood a few steps away, gym clothes on, jacket unzipped, hair tied up in a short ponytail.
"You didn't go with them?" Mirai asked.
"I told the teacher I had stomach cramps," Kana said bluntly. "Technically not a lie. My stomach is annoyed."
Mirai blinked.
"You stayed?" she asked slowly.
"Well, someone has to make sure you don't get kidnapped by the history textbooks," Kana replied. "They've been after your soul since first year."
It took Mirai a second to find the laugh inside her. When she did, it was small, but real.
Kana walked over and sat sideways on the desk in front of her, facing her.
"So," she said. "Are we going to keep pretending you just 'haven't been sleeping well'?"
The words hit like a soft punch.
Mirai looked down.
"Kana…" she murmured.
"I'm not asking to be nosy," Kana added quickly. "I just… I see you, you know? You've been off. You fainted yesterday. The nurse looked extra serious when she came to get you. Teachers have been whispering more than usual."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"And you're good at pretending everything's fine," she continued. "Too good. It's suspicious."
Mirai pressed her lips together.
"I don't want to drag you into this," she said finally.
"That's my decision, not yours," Kana said. "If I didn't want to be dragged in, I wouldn't be here. I'd be outside pretending to care about warm-up stretches."
Silence settled between them.
You don't have to tell me.
But if you're going through something, I'd rather hear it from you than from rumors.
Kana's voice from the other day replayed itself in Mirai's mind.
She'd thought the storm—the real storm—would arrive when the school found out.
She hadn't considered the smaller storms. The ones where you decide who gets to stand close to you when it hits.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirt.
"What have you heard?" she asked quietly.
Kana hesitated. That alone told Mirai enough.
"Some second-years saw you and your brother near a clinic," Kana said. "They don't know exactly which kind. But you know how people are. They start guessing."
Mirai's stomach turned.
"Guessing what?" she whispered, already knowing.
Kana's eyes softened.
"…What you're probably afraid they are guessing," she said.
It wasn't anger in her voice. It was something sadder. Tired, almost.
Mirai swallowed.
"So," Kana continued, "before that game of telephone really starts… I'm asking you. Not as a classmate. As someone who actually likes you."
Mirai's breath hitched.
"Is something… serious going on?" Kana asked. "You don't have to tell me everything, or anything. But if you tell me, I promise I'm not going to pretend I don't know you afterward."
The words cut through the fog like light.
Not going to pretend I don't know you afterward.
That was the deepest fear, wasn't it? Not just judgment. But that quiet, subtle abandonment where people still smiled but stopped really seeing you.
Mirai stared at her hands.
She could lie. Again. Put another layer of cloth over the wound.
Or…
Her voice came out small.
"I'm… pregnant," she said.
The word hung in the air between them.
Kana didn't react the way Mirai had expected.
No sharp inhale. No rounding of eyes like she'd seen in dramas. The reaction was subtler.
A blink. The tiniest widening. A slow exhale.
"How far?" Kana asked, after a moment.
"About eight weeks," Mirai murmured.
Kana let that sink in.
"…Wow," she said softly. "That's… a lot."
Mirai laughed weakly.
"That's one way to describe it," she said.
"Do your parents know?" Kana asked.
"Yes," Mirai said. "They… didn't take it well at first. But they're trying now."
"Your brother?" Kana asked.
The question wasn't casual. Mirai heard the weight behind it.
Her chest tightened in a different way.
"He's the reason I'm still… standing," she said honestly. "He didn't… push me away."
Kana nodded slowly.
"And the father?" she asked.
Mirai's grip on her skirt tightened.
"He left," she said. "Said it was my responsibility. That I'd ruin his future."
Kana's eyes darkened.
"What about his parents?" she asked.
"They told me to get rid of it," Mirai whispered. "And never contact him again."
Kana's jaw set in a way Mirai hadn't seen often.
"What nice people," she said flatly. "I hope they step on Legos every morning."
The unexpected phrase made Mirai choke on a half-laugh, half-sob.
"I'm serious," Kana went on. "You don't say that to a girl who comes to you scared out of her mind. That's not parenting. That's cowardice with a neat haircut."
Mirai wiped under her eyes quickly.
"I thought… you'd look at me differently," she confessed. "Like I'm… stupid. Or dirty. Or…"
"Did you rob a bank?" Kana cut in.
Mirai blinked. "…No?"
"Did you push an old lady down the stairs?"
"No!"
"Did you cheat off my math test all these years?"
"No," Mirai repeated, more firmly despite herself.
"Then don't use words like 'dirty' on yourself in front of me," Kana said. "I don't allow it."
Her tone was light, but her eyes were serious.
"I made a mistake," Mirai whispered. "A big one."
"Yeah," Kana said. "You did."
Mirai flinched.
"But," Kana continued, "you're not the only one who did. You're just the only one carrying the proof."
The sentence sank into Mirai like something heavy and necessary.
"I don't know how to do this," she said. "Any of it. School. People. The future. All of it feels… too big."
Kana's shoulders softened.
"You're not supposed to know," she said. "We're seventeen. Half the class can't even remember to bring pencils."
She slid off the desk and sat properly in her own chair, twisting around to face Mirai more directly.
"Look," she said, voice quieter now. "People are going to talk. I'd love to say they won't, but they will. They'll guess. They'll whisper. They'll test the story like a shiny rumor."
Her lips pressed together.
"But if they're going to talk anyway," she said, "I'd prefer to be on the side that shuts them up instead of the side that stares."
The words hit Mirai in a place even her brother's support couldn't reach.
This wasn't family duty. This wasn't blood. This was someone choosing to stand closer when it would be easier to step away.
"Why?" Mirai whispered. "Why would you… do that?"
Kana thought for a moment.
"Because I like you," she said simply. "And because I don't want to live in a world where one mistake means you lose everyone."
Her gaze slid briefly to the window.
"And maybe," she added, almost to herself, "because if it were me… I'd hope someone would do the same."
Silence settled for a second, full but not uncomfortable.
"If I… tell you something," Mirai said, voice barely audible, "will you… keep it between us?"
"Unless you tell me you plan to rob that bank we talked about," Kana said. "In that case, I'd like to be your getaway driver."
Mirai's lips trembled.
"At the clinic," she said, "we heard… the heartbeat."
Kana's eyes widened again, just a little.
"That early?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Mirai said. "It was… small. Just a flicker on the screen. But the sound…"
Her throat closed around the memory.
"I thought… keeping some distance would make it easier," she admitted. "Like, if I didn't see or hear anything, I could pretend it's just… a problem. A word. But after that…"
She pressed her palm lightly to her stomach.
"I can't pretend it's nothing anymore," she whispered.
Kana watched her with an expression that wasn't quite pity, wasn't quite awe.
"Does it… make you feel more afraid?" she asked.
"Yes," Mirai said. "And less. And more. And… I don't know."
Kana nodded slowly.
"That sounds about right," she said.
The PE whistle blew faintly from outside.
"Class will be back soon," Kana said. "You can tell people you had paperwork to finish or something. Most won't ask beyond that. People are… wrapped up in their own little storms."
She stood, then hesitated.
"One more thing," she said.
"What?" Mirai asked.
"If anyone starts saying nasty things," Kana said calmly, "I'll hear it before you do. People talk to me like I'm furniture. I blend in."
Her lips quirked.
"I'll… filter it," she said. "As much as I can. And if someone says something about you in front of me, I'll make sure they regret it. In a way that doesn't get me suspended."
Mirai's eyes filled again.
"You don't have to—" she began.
"I know," Kana cut in gently. "But I want to. Let me want to."
The sound of footsteps thundered in the hallway.
"PE's over," Kana said, glancing at the door. "Showtime."
She turned, walked back to her seat, and sat down just as the door slid open and the rest of the class poured in, flushed and chatting about how cold the air had been, how boring the warm-up was, how someone had tripped.
Life resumed.
No one glanced twice at Mirai staying in uniform. Someone asked her if they'd missed any announcements. She answered.
From the outside, nothing looked different.
From the inside, everything was.
She had told someone.
Someone who still sat in front of her, casually tying her hair back up, as if the world hadn't just shifted a few degrees.
It was a small, incandescent miracle.
That evening, Yuuto dropped onto the living room floor like someone had unplugged him.
He'd finished a longer shift than usual. His fingers smelled faintly of coins and plastic and cheap food wrappers. The soles of his feet hurt in a deep, dull way from standing too long.
His father sat at the table, laptop open, face lit by the blue-white glow of a webpage.
"How was it?" his father asked without looking away from the screen.
"Busy," Yuuto said. "End of the month. Everyone suddenly remembers they need snacks to survive."
"Mm," his father hummed.
Yuuto leaned back and stretched his legs.
"What are you looking at?" he asked.
His father hesitated, then turned the laptop slightly.
On the screen:
Rows of small pictures. Cribs. Strollers. Baby clothes. Price tags.
Yuuto stared for a second.
"You went into the deep waters," he muttered.
His father exhaled, something between a sigh and a chuckle.
"I thought… I should have some idea," he said. "If we're going to do this… properly."
They scrolled quietly for a moment.
"Why is everything so expensive," Yuuto whispered, almost offended. "It's like they tax cuteness."
His father nodded.
"And they outgrow everything in months," he added. "You buy something, and by the time you finish paying for it, it doesn't fit anymore."
Yuuto leaned his head back against the wall.
"We'll have to prioritize," he said. "Essentials first. We don't need the deluxe, 10-function, auto-rocking smart crib that connects to Wi-Fi and sings lullabies in three languages."
His father actually laughed at that.
"Definitely not," he said. "We just need… enough."
Silence settled for a moment.
Then his father spoke more quietly.
"You know," he said, "when your mother was pregnant with you… I was terrified too."
Yuuto blinked.
"Really?" he asked. "You didn't seem like it in the photos."
"In the photos," his father replied, "I held you like I knew what I was doing. In reality, I was one crying fit away from passing out."
He smiled faintly.
"I learned," he said. "Day by day. Mistake by mistake."
His gaze shifted toward the hallway where Mirai's room was.
"This time…" he said, "the fear is… different. Heavier. Because it's not just a baby. It's a baby and a daughter who is still a child in some ways, carrying something she shouldn't have had to yet."
Yuuto rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.
"I saw her today at lunch," he said. "She texted me that she'd eaten. I asked what. She sent a picture of a bento."
His mouth twisted.
"She apologized," he said. "For making me worry."
His father closed the laptop with a soft click.
"She's always been like that," he said. "Trying to make things easier for everyone around her, even when she's the one who needs help."
He looked at Yuuto.
"That's why I'm grateful you're here," he added. "You… have a way of reminding us what matters when we start looking in the wrong direction."
Yuuto snorted lightly.
"I just say what she can't," he said. "She's the one doing the hard part."
His father nodded slowly.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'll ask my boss about flexible hours, in case we need time for hospital visits. We can't rely only on you for everything."
Yuuto felt a strange warmth and ache in his chest at the same time.
"Okay," he said.
They sat in quiet for a while longer, the unspoken truth hovering between them:
None of them knew exactly how they were going to do this.
They only knew they were going to try.
Later that night, Mirai sat at her desk, notebooks open, pen in hand.
She was supposed to be finishing an essay.
Her mind kept drifting.
Her phone buzzed.
Kana:
Did you get home okay?
Mirai smiled faintly.
Yes. You?
Kana:
I survived my family's dinner. Barely.
Also, FYI, some girls from 2-C were whispering about you near the stairs. Something about "the clinic" and "her brother."
Mirai's stomach tightened.
What… did you do? she typed.
Kana:
I asked them loudly if they were planning to publish a medical report or just addicted to other people's business.
They scattered.
A small, startled laugh escaped Mirai.
You didn't have to do that, she wrote.
Kana:
I know.
Go to sleep, pregnant person. You need rest more than scrolling.
Mirai hesitated, then typed:
Thank you.
Kana:
For what?
So many answers.
For staying in the classroom.
For listening.
For not looking away.
For choosing to stand closer instead of safer.
For not pretending you don't know me, she wrote.
There was a pause.
Then:
Kana:
That would be a pretty dumb thing to do.
You're Mirai.
Pregnancy doesn't erase that.
Her eyes blurred again.
She set her phone down, hand drifting once more to her stomach.
There were two kinds of storms in her life now.
The one inside her body, remaking her quietly in ways she could not fully see.
And the one outside, made of people's opinions, words, judgments, fears.
She could not control the weather.
But tonight, as she sat there with messages from a friend on her phone, the murmur of her family's soft conversations down the hall, and the echo of that heartbeat still lodged somewhere in her chest, she realized something:
She was no longer just enduring storms alone.
She was surrounded—imperfectly, messily, but truly—by people who had chosen not to leave.
A brother who worked until his feet hurt.
Parents who had turned their fear into clumsy, genuine effort.
A nurse who quietly rearranged the school's shape around her.
A friend who stayed in the classroom during PE and told rumors to shut up.
The world could still be cruel.
But it was no longer only that.
That night, when she finally lay down and closed her eyes, fear was still there.
But for the first time, hope lay down beside it and refused to move.