The pain started as something small.
Annoying, but ignorable.
Mirai had a habit of ignoring things that hurt.
It began on a Wednesday afternoon, the sky outside the classroom already turning the flat color of early winter evening. The heater hummed weakly. The chalkboard was crowded with formulas. Her classmates shuffled papers, the air filled with the soft scratch of pens and the growing tension of exams approaching.
She'd stayed after school to finish a makeup quiz she'd missed on one of her clinic days. Her teacher had apologized for the timing—"I know you're tired, but we have deadlines"—and she'd smiled and said, "It's okay," even though her body was quietly disagreeing.
When she stood up from her chair, a dull cramp tugged low in her abdomen.
Not the small skin-tug of a kick. Not the flutter she'd grown used to. This was heavier, more like something tightening from the inside.
She pressed her hand there without thinking.
"Are you all right?" her homeroom teacher asked, gathering papers from his desk.
"I'm fine," she said automatically. "Just… tired."
He frowned slightly.
"If you need—" he began.
"I'll rest when I get home," she cut in gently. "Thank you, sensei."
He didn't look fully convinced, but he let her go.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold. Her breath clouded in front of her mouth as she walked toward the station. Each step sent a small echo of pain through her, like a reminder tapping from the inside.
You're pushing it.
She tightened her scarf and kept walking.
By the time she got home, the ache had settled into a low, constant throb. Not unbearable. Just there.
Her mother noticed it before she said anything.
"You're pale," she said, taking Mirai's bag. "Did something happen?"
"It's just… cramps," Mirai replied, forcing a small smile. "The doctor said some discomfort is normal, remember?"
Her mother hesitated.
"Sit down," she said. "I'll bring you tea."
"I should help with—"
"Sit," her mother repeated softly, leaving no room for argument.
Mirai sat.
The baby shifted inside her, a familiar movement. It was strange how quickly she had come to recognize the difference between a kick and… everything else.
You're okay, right? she thought.
It's just me that's… off.
She pressed her palm lightly over the curve, as if she could learn the truth through her skin.
The tea was warm in her hands, but the unease under her ribs didn't melt.
"You should lie down," her mother suggested. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
Mirai nodded, more to avoid worrying her than because she believed it would help.
She went to her room, changed into softer clothes, and lay on her side. The blanket was warm. Her pillow smelled faintly of shampoo and something that was just… home.
She dozed for a bit, wobbling between sleep and thought.
When she woke again, it was dark.
The ache was worse.
It had pulled itself tighter, not sharp but heavy enough to steal her breath for a moment.
She shifted, trying to find a position that felt easier. The baby nudged back once, then again, as if complaining about being jostled.
"It's okay," she whispered. "Sorry. I'm just… clumsy."
She swung her legs off the bed and stood slowly.
Her head swam. The room tilted briefly, then steadied.
"Maybe I just need the bathroom," she muttered, more to herself than anything.
The hallway was quiet. She could hear the faint sound of the TV from the living room and the muffled clink of dishes being moved—her mother finishing up after dinner, probably. She'd slept longer than she thought.
She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
The light was too bright after the dimness of her room. She squinted for a second, then moved automatically.
And froze.
There was blood.
Not a lot. Not like a horror movie. Just a smear of red where it shouldn't be.
Her brain didn't understand it first.
Then it did.
Her breathing went shallow.
No.
No. No. No.
For a moment, everything went very quiet inside her.
Then panic erupted, hot and fast.
She gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening.
"Calm down," she told herself, but the words had no place to land. Her heart was racing so hard it made her vision tremble.
This happens, she remembered vaguely.
The doctor mentioned it. Spotting, sometimes. Not always the end of the world.
But not nothing.
The ache pulsed again, deeper now that fear had dragged it into focus.
Her hand moved, almost on its own, to her stomach.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, please, please…"
Her throat tightened.
"Mom?" she tried to call, but her voice broke on the first syllable.
She swallowed and tried again, louder.
"Mom!"
Footsteps. Quick. Her mother's hand on the door.
"Mirai? What is it?"
"Don't come in," Mirai said reflexively. Shame burned through her, irrational and stubborn. She didn't want anyone to see. To confirm what she'd seen.
"Are you hurt?" her mother asked, panic sharp in her voice now.
"I… there's… blood," Mirai managed. "I… I think something's wrong."
Silence.
Not real silence. The kind full of held breath.
Then her mother said, voice shaking:
"I'm coming in, okay?"
The door opened.
Her mother took one look and sucked in a breath.
She didn't scream. She didn't shout.
She went very still.
"Okay," she said quietly, more to herself than to Mirai. "Okay. We're going to the hospital."
"Hospital?" Mirai echoed, dazed. "Is it that bad? Maybe it's just—"
"We're going," her mother repeated, already moving. "Don't argue. Get your coat."
Mirai's hands shook as she washed up, the sight of red refusing to leave her mind even when the water ran clear. The ache continued, steady and unfamiliar.
She could feel herself unraveling.
"What if…?" she started.
Her mother's voice cut gently through her spiraling.
"We don't know anything yet," she said. "We're not going to decide what's happening before we even see a doctor. Coat. Now."
Her tone was firm enough that Mirai's body obeyed before her thoughts caught up.
In the hallway, Yuuto's door opened.
"What's going on?" he asked, hair tousled, eyes narrowing when he saw their faces.
"Hospital," their mother said shortly, already slipping on her shoes. "Call your father. Tell him to meet us there if he can."
Yuuto's eyes went to Mirai's hand clutching her stomach. To the way she leaned slightly against the wall. To her pallor.
His face drained of color.
"What happened?" he asked, voice too level.
"Just call," their mother said. "We'll explain in the taxi."
He didn't argue.
Mirai didn't remember much of the ride.
City lights smeared past the taxi windows. Her mother's hand gripped hers. The seatbelt felt too tight across her chest. The ache kept her anchored in her body when everything else wanted to float away.
She stared at the back of the driver's headrest and thought in broken loops.
Please be okay. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I stayed late. I'm sorry I kept saying "I'm fine." I'm sorry.
Her mother's thumb rubbed circles over her knuckles.
"You're going to be seen soon," she murmured. "We got here quickly. That's good. It's good, Mirai."
Her own voice was too bright, too brittle.
At the hospital entrance, the fluorescent lights felt harsh, the waiting room too white, the chairs too hard.
Yuuto arrived minutes later, almost running, breath clouding in the cold air outside before he burst through the automatic doors.
He saw them and stopped short.
"Which department?" he asked.
"Obstetrics," their mother replied.
The word still sat strangely in Mirai's ears. Obstetrics. A grown-up word for something she still felt too young to inhabit.
Nurses moved efficiently around them, checking her details, asking questions.
"How many weeks?"
"Any previous complications?"
"How much pain are you in?"
"Any pre-existing conditions?"
She answered as best she could, voice thin.
Yuuto stood slightly behind her, shoulders tense, eyes tracking everything as if memorizing it in case he had to replay it later.
They were led to a consultation room.
"Your mother can come," the nurse said. "You two wait here."
Her father arrived just as they were going in, hair windblown, tie loose. He looked like he'd run through his responsibilities and left them scattered behind him just to get here.
"What happened?" he asked, breathless.
"Bleeding," Yuuto said. The word felt like swallowing glass. "They're checking."
Their father's face went blank for a second before he forced it into movement again.
"Okay," he said, too loud. "Okay. We're here. That's… that's what matters."
The door closed behind Mirai and her mother.
Yuuto sat.
His leg bounced.
His father sat too, hands clasped, staring at the floor.
Between them, the empty chair felt like a third person. The shape of all the things they couldn't say.
Yuuto's mind replayed the last few weeks in an unforgiving loop.
Had he pushed her too hard about school?
Had they suggested too many things at once?
Had he missed signs she was more tired than she let on?
"You're doing well," he'd told her. "You're strong."
What if those words had become permission in her head to ignore the limits of her body?
He gritted his teeth.
"Don't do that," his father said quietly, not looking up.
"Do what?" Yuuto muttered.
"Blame yourself for something you couldn't control," his father replied.
The hypocrisy of that sentence stung—they'd all spent so long blaming Mirai.
But now his father's gaze lifted, eyes haunted.
"I'm saying it to myself too," he said.
Yuuto exhaled slowly.
Time stretched. Nurses walked past. A baby cried somewhere in a distant ward. The clock on the wall moved its hands with cruel patience.
When the door finally opened, Mirai walked out slowly, one hand on her stomach, her mother hovering close.
They both looked shaken, but not destroyed.
Yuuto and his father stood at the same time.
"Well?" Yuuto asked.
Mirai swallowed.
"The doctor said… it's a threatened miscarriage," she said, each word carefully placed. "But… not happening. Not yet. The baby's still… okay."
The ache inside him loosened a fraction.
"But?" Yuuto asked softly, hearing the weight behind her tone.
She let out a shaky breath.
"But my body is… under a lot of stress," she said. "Too much moving, too much strain. Not enough rest. The doctor said if I keep trying to live like nothing's changed, something eventually will."
Her mother spoke, voice hoarse.
"She has to rest," she said. "Really rest. Not just lying down between classes. Properly."
Her father rubbed his face with both hands.
"What does that mean?" he asked. "In practice."
"It means," Mirai said quietly, "I can't… keep going to school like this. Not every day. Maybe… not at all for a while."
The words felt like someone had picked up her future and tilted it again.
Yuuto's chest tightened.
"What did the doctor say exactly?" he asked.
"That if we want the pregnancy to continue safely," her mother answered, "we have to remove as much unnecessary stress as possible. Physical and… emotional."
Her father nodded slowly, as if forcing his brain to translate.
"School is stress," he said.
"School is also… my life," Mirai whispered.
Her mother gripped her arm gently.
"I know," she said. "But your life is… your life. And his. Or hers." Her voice broke on the pronoun.
"We can figure out school," her father said. There was fear in his eyes, yes—but this time it wasn't about neighbors or colleagues. It was about what they'd almost lost.
"We can't fix… this," he added, gesturing vaguely toward her stomach, "if it breaks."
Mirai's throat ached.
"I was careful," she said, as if making a case. "I ate. I rested when I could. I didn't run in PE. I—"
"You still fainted," Yuuto cut in gently. "And now this."
His eyes were too bright.
"It's not about how careful you've been," he said. "It's about how much you were carrying before this happened."
She looked at him, the hospital light making his face look older.
"I don't want to fall behind," she whispered.
"You won't," he said. "Not in the ways that matter."
She almost laughed at that. Almost.
"Do you really believe that?" she asked.
He hesitated, then nodded.
"I have to," he said. "Or I won't be able to breathe."
The doctor stepped into the hallway then, chart in hand. His face was calm, but the seriousness in his eyes was unmistakable.
"To summarize," he said, addressing all of them now, "the baby is stable for the moment. The bleeding has stopped. The heartbeat is strong. But this is a warning, not a random incident."
He looked at Mirai.
"You're young," he said. "Which helps. Your body is resilient. But you're also… asking it to do too many things at once."
He ticked them off quietly.
"Grow a child. Handle exam stress. Deal with social pressure. Commute. Pretend you're fine. That combination will break anyone, not just a teenager."
The truth of it hit her like a slow wave.
"You need to prioritize," he continued gently. "For a while. That may mean stepping back from school. From activities. From anything that is not essential to your and the baby's health."
Her father spoke, voice low.
"What are the chances," he asked, "if we do that? That the pregnancy continues normally?"
The doctor sighed.
"Medicine is not a promise," he said. "But… your chances are much better if she rests and reduces stress. If not…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Mirai's hand tightened over her stomach.
"We'll… adjust," her mother said firmly, surprising even herself with the finality in her tone. "Whatever we have to do, we'll do."
The doctor nodded, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "I'll give you some instructions. And a note for the school, if needed."
Her father almost laughed.
"They already know," he said. "Now they'll… really know."
The house felt different when they returned.
Not because anything had changed physically. The same shoes lined up by the door. The same table. The same clock. The same light above the sink.
But the air felt… quieter. As if even the walls had heard the doctor's warning and were holding their breath.
They gathered in the living room, all four of them, without really deciding to.
Mirai sat on the couch, legs folded under the blanket her mother had draped over her. Her father sat in his usual chair. Yuuto took the floor, back against the sofa, close enough that if she reached out, she could touch his shoulder.
No one spoke at first.
Then her father said, to no one in particular:
"I almost lost you once when you were born, you know."
Mirai blinked.
"You never told me that," she said.
He exhaled.
"You were small," he said. "The cord wrapped… where it shouldn't. The doctor worked quickly. There were a few… bad minutes. Your mother was half-conscious. I remember thinking—this is it. This is where everything ends before it even begins."
He looked at her now, eyes glistening.
"And then you cried," he said. "Loud. Angry. Like you were offended at the delay."
A small, wet laugh escaped her.
"I didn't want to think about losing you again," he continued quietly. "But today… in that waiting room… I realized I've been thinking more about what neighbors might say than about that."
His jaw tightened.
"I don't care about any of that anymore," he said. "Let them talk. Let them judge. Let them make up stories. They don't get a say in whether my daughter and grandchild survive."
The word grandchild landed like a small, soft stone in the middle of the room.
Her mother exhaled shakily.
"I've been so afraid," she said. "Of everything. Of you. Of myself. But today… when I saw that blood…"
Her voice broke.
"I thought, 'If we lose this baby because I was too busy being ashamed to protect my daughter properly, I will never forgive myself.'"
Mirai's eyes overflowed again.
"You didn't—" she began.
"We all did," Yuuto cut in gently. "For a while."
He turned slightly to look up at her.
"But now we know better," he said. "And knowing better means doing better."
He took a breath.
"Starting with this," he added. "You're not going to school next week."
She blinked.
"What?" she asked. "You can't just—"
"I can," he said. "And I am. At least not until we talk with your teacher and the school officially about… taking leave, or whatever they can arrange."
"But exams—"
"Can be retaken," he said. "Health can't. Life can't."
Her parents nodded.
"We'll set up a meeting," her father said. "Explain the situation. Ask about remote options. External exams later. Anything. We'll find something."
"You worked so hard to reach third year," Mirai whispered. "I don't want to throw that away."
"You're not throwing it away," her mother said firmly. "You're putting it down for a while so you can carry something heavier without dropping everything."
The image sank in—the idea of hands too full to keep holding everything.
"I'll fall behind everyone," she murmured.
Yuuto gave a small, tired smile.
"Everyone you're trying to keep up with," he said, "has a completely different race than you. You're running one no one else in your class is running. Stop pretending you're on the same track."
She looked down at her hands.
"What if…" she started, then stopped.
"What if?" her father prompted gently.
"What if I give everything to this," she said. "Rest. Listen. Sacrifice school. And something still happens. What if… I lose it anyway?"
The question sat in the room, raw and ugly and real.
No one rushed to fill the silence.
It was Yuuto who spoke first.
"Then," he said quietly, "at least you'll know you did everything you could. That you didn't ignore your own body. That you didn't treat the baby like an inconvenience."
His voice shook.
"And we'll be the ones," he added, "who have to live with whether we supported you enough or not. That's… our responsibility too. Not just yours."
Her mother nodded, tears slipping freely now.
"I don't have the power to guarantee a happy ending," she said. "I wish I did. If I could take your fear and carry it myself, I would. But I can't. All I can do is stand next to you while you're scared."
Her father reached over and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
"Whatever happens," he said, "you're not going to go through it alone. Not anymore. That's the only thing I can promise without lying."
Mirai stared at their faces.
There was still fear there. Still uncertainty. Still guilt.
But also something else now.
Resolve.
Slow. Clumsy. Late. But real.
She placed both her hands over her belly.
"I'm scared," she said again, because it felt like an important truth to keep saying out loud.
"We know," Yuuto replied softly.
"But," she continued, voice trembling, "I don't want to lose you because I was too stubborn to sit down when I needed to. Or because I wanted to take one more quiz. Or prove to everyone that I'm still 'fine'."
Her eyes closed.
"I'll… take the break," she whispered. "From school. From pretending nothing's changed."
The decision hurt. It felt like letting go of a version of herself she'd worked hard to build.
But beneath the hurt, there was a different feeling.
A small, fragile sense of… alignment.
Like something inside her had finally stopped fighting what was already true.
Her mother leaned forward, pressing her forehead lightly against Mirai's.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For choosing yourself. And… for choosing this life too."
Yuuto exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.
"I'll talk to the school with Dad," he said. "You rest. For real this time. That's your job now."
She managed a small, wobbly smile.
"My job," she repeated. "To rest."
"Don't underestimate it," he said. "Most people fail that assignment."
They laughed, a little—thin, shaky, but laughter all the same.
That night, when Mirai went to bed, she lay on her side as she always did now, one hand on her stomach.
The pain had lessened to a faint echo.
The doctor's warning still rang in her head.
So did her family's voices.
She spoke into the dark, words barely above a breath.
"I almost lost you," she whispered. "Or… we almost did. I don't know which is more accurate."
She thought about school. About wearing her uniform. About Kana's dry humor. About the noise of the classroom. About the board, the textbooks, the desks.
About how she would soon leave that world, not with a ceremony or a diploma, but with a quiet absence that some would question, some would ignore, some would gossip over.
"I don't know what my future looks like without that schedule," she admitted. "Without that version of me."
Her fingers splayed gently over the curve of her belly.
"But I know this," she said. "You're real. You're here. And tonight… that almost changed."
Her throat tightened.
"So I'll choose you," she whispered. "Even if it means walking a path I never planned. Even if it means starting over later. Even if people say I ruined my life."
She closed her eyes.
"You're part of my life now," she finished softly. "So whatever I build from here… will have to include you."
Outside her door, the house was quiet.
Her father sat at the table, staring at the doctor's note as if it were a new set of instructions on how to be a parent. Her mother held a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Yuuto leaned against the wall in the hallway, eyes closed, listening to the faint, steady rhythm of the home he'd promised to protect.
None of them knew exactly how they would manage.
But tonight, after almost losing everything they didn't know how to handle,
they finally understood one thing:
No exam, no reputation, no fear of gossip was worth more than the lives pressed together in that small room—
one girl who had made a mistake,
and the tiny, stubborn heartbeat that refused to stop because of it.