Chapter Text
The greenhouse at Kamome Academy was the one place where silence didn’t feel awkward. It smelled like soil and rain, even on sunny days. Dusty sunlight filtered through the glass panels, catching on the leaves of baby tomato plants and shy hydrangeas. And in the middle of it all, hunched over a tray of marigold seedlings, was Aoi Akane.
"Uh—excuse me?" She looked up. A boy stood at the edge of the table, gripping the strap of his school bag with both hands. His uniform blazer was wrinkled, and his socks didn’t match. He looked like someone who got tangled in the morning before even leaving his house. "I’m here for the gardening club?" he said.
Aoi blinked. "You’re early. We don’t usually meet until—"
"I know, I just—I got nervous. Thought I’d come early in case I got lost, or… well, I guess I didn’t get lost. Which is good! Haha." Aoi stared at him. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I’m Yashiro. Yashiro-kun. Second year of the middle school department. Nice to meet you."
“…Akane Aoi. We're in the same year! You can call me Aoi."
Yashiro-kun grinned like he’d just been handed a trophy. "Cool! That’s a pretty name, by the way. Like a flower. Wait, is that why you joined the gardening club? Because your name’s Aoi and that’s a plant?"
Aoi raised a brow. "No. That would be a stupid reason."
"Oh." He scratched his neck, face turning red. "Sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Or… always, actually."
Aoi sighed and handed him a pair of gloves. "You’re already here. Might as well help me re-pot these."
"Yes, ma’am!"
"...Don’t call me ma’am."
"Right! Sorry! Uh—Aoi!" She gave him a long look, but her lips twitched, just barely. He didn’t notice. They worked in silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence where dirt shifted and plastic trays creaked, and the only sound from either of them was the occasional mutter from Yashiro-kun:
"Do marigolds like sunlight? Oh wait. Of course they do. They're flowers."
or
"This one's flopping. Is that bad?"
Aoi finally said, "Use less water. You're drowning them."
He frowned down at his plant. "That explains the flop."
She glanced over. He looked genuinely dismayed, like he’d personally offended the flower. It was… oddly endearing. "You’re bad at this," Aoi said.
"Yup," he admitted, cheerfully. "But I’ll get better."
Aoi studied him. Most people got flustered around her. They either tried too hard to impress her or avoided her altogether. Yashiro-kun was just… himself. Messy, talkative, clumsy. But not fake. "You don’t have to impress anyone," she murmured.
"Huh?"
"Never mind." With time passing far quicker then either noticed, they ended up walking toward the gate together. The sun was just starting to dip, turning the school courtyard gold.
"Hey, Aoi?"
"...Yeah?"
"I've been seeing you around campus, actually. You always looked kind of... lonely." Aoi stopped walking.
Yashiro-kun flinched. "Ah! Sorry, that sounded rude, didn’t it? I mean, not lonely-lonely, just… you always sit by yourself. Like you’re thinking about something really far away."
She didn’t answer at first. Her fingers curled around her bag strap.
"Maybe I just like the quiet."
"Yeah. I get that. Especially with how all the other boys tend to fly around you like bees! I'd get overwhelmed too!!" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "My mom says I talk too much. I think my whole class agrees. I kinda wear people out."
Aoi blinked, surprised at his sudden honesty. "You don’t wear me out," she said, before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, eyes wide. Then he smiled. Not the goofy kind. A warm one, soft and grateful. "You don’t either," he said. They stood there, awkwardly, until Aoi cleared her throat.
"You should get going. Club’s meeting again tomorrow."
"I’ll be there! Same time?"
"…No. On time."
"Right! Got it!" He jogged off, tripping over his own foot before catching himself with a dramatic arm-flail. Aoi watched him go, then turned to walk home, the corners of her mouth still twitching upward.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling. You always look kind of lonely. She hated how right he was. But also… how gentle he’d said it. Not like an accusation. Like he noticed. Like he cared. Aoi rolled onto her side, heart too full, too strange. That boy was so awkward. So talkative. So bright. She didn’t know it yet, but she would fall in love with him. Or rather, the girl he’d become.
By mid-October, the greenhouse was warmer than it should’ve been, holding on to the last of summer like a stubborn memory. The scent of damp earth and crushed petals clung to everything. It became the smell of their afterschool hours: soft soil, trimmed stems, and unspoken things. It started with a braid. Nene had waited until club had ended, when the other members filtered out one by one, and the sun dipped behind the tall trees. She hovered, uncertain. Her usual energy—bouncing, loud, wonderfully chaotic—was dialed down to a fragile sort of stillness.
Aoi had been pruning a tray of lavender, the quiet rhythm of it calming her as always. She wasn’t surprised when Nene stayed behind. He often did. Or rather—she. Aoi was starting to feel that change in her chest, even if Nene hadn’t said anything aloud yet. It was in the way she moved lately: slower, more careful, like she was listening for something inside herself.
That day, Nene asked her to braid her hair. She didn’t offer much explanation: just a vague excuse about a tutorial online, but Aoi saw through it. She saw the anxious glance at the compact mirror, the way Nene’s fingers trembled when she unzipped her bag. This wasn’t about a hairstyle. This was about seeing herself. Or trying to.
Aoi wasn't one to ask questions. She simply motioned for Nene to sit on the old bench near the tulips, brushing aside the fallen petals and leaves. As she worked, Aoi noticed how soft Nene’s hair had become, how it curled in the humidity, how it smelled faintly of honey shampoo. She remembered the first time they’d met—how awkward Nene had been, tripping over his own words and feet—and now she was here, more herself than ever, even if still trembling.
When the braid was done, Nene looked into the mirror and smiled. Not wide or bright. Just a small, stunned sort of smile. A fragile affirmation.
After that, things changed. The shift was gradual, like watching flowers bloom from buds—slow, quiet, impossible to miss once it had begun. Nene started wearing lip gloss. A pale pink that caught the light when she laughed. She stopped correcting teachers who misgendered her. Her voice began to settle into something softer, more fluid. She asked Aoi to help her pick out shampoo scents. She giggled over scrunchies and pastel pens, and started humming love songs under her breath when they worked together.
But it was the skirt on her school uniform that did it. One Friday, she arrived to the greenhouse with her usual oversized uniform—but beneath it, a pleated beige skirt swayed just above her knees. She kept tugging it down, clearly unsure, but Aoi didn’t laugh. She didn’t ask questions. She simply looked—and saw her.
Nene stood in it, like her skin finally matched the shape of her heart. The way she looked at Aoi, cheeks flushed, waiting to be told she looked ridiculous, and instead receiving a quiet kind of reverence. Aoi said nothing, but something inside her settled into place. Aoi laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, her phone dark beside her. Her mind was loud in the silence. She could still see Nene’s silhouette in that skirt. Could still feel the warmth of her fingers brushing hers when she handed her a pair of gloves earlier. Could still hear the little laugh she made when Aoi accidentally knocked over a pot and swore under her breath.
For a long time, Aoi had only ever thought she liked boys. It was easy. Predictable. There was a kind of safety in how expected it all was. But this—this wasn’t expected. And yet, it didn’t feel foreign. It felt… inevitable. It wasn’t just that Nene was beautiful. Everything about her: the awkwardness, the kindness, the way she beamed at small compliments like they were medals. All of it was carved into Aoi’s chest now. And the thought of anyone else getting to witness this blooming version of her was suddenly unbearable.
There was a warmth behind her eyes that hurt to hold back. Not tears. Something softer. Something like joy trying not to break her open. She turned on her side, curled beneath the sheets, and whispered to no one, "She’s so beautiful."
Spring was beginning to break through winter’s grip, and Kamome’s campus responded with a kind of quiet jubilation. The trees began to blush pink with buds, and students started lingering on the benches again, their laughter softened by warm breezes. The greenhouse grew hotter, more fragrant, as if reflecting something growing between Aoi and Nene, something unspoken but unmistakably alive. Aoi noticed the way Nene had become brighter, bolder. She had started stealing Aoi’s cardigans — claiming she only did it because they were “soft” — but she never gave them back. Her favorite was a cream-colored one that dwarfed her frame. She wore it proudly, sleeves dragging past her fingers.
She also started asking for help with eyeliner. With hair accessories. With little, everyday affirmations.
“Aoi-chan, do you think I’d look cute in a beret?”, “Would I look weird with glitter nails?”, “Be honest, is my voice too high today?” Each time, Aoi answered carefully. Sometimes with a quiet nod. Sometimes with a flutter of her hand, pretending to be too focused on watering to look up. But she always answered.
Yes.
Yes, you’d look adorable.
No, you’re perfect.
And every time, Nene would glow, but Aoi was cracking under the surface. It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t just support. It was a steady ache in her chest — the kind that made her heart clench when Nene hugged her a little too long, or leaned her head on her shoulder during clean-up duty. She needed to talk to her. She needed to say something.
They sat beneath a cherry tree that hadn’t bloomed yet. It was early evening. Aoi had invited her out under the pretense of helping plan the next club activity, but her hands were empty, and her notes untouched. Nene sat cross-legged, sipping a juice box. “You’re quiet today,” she said.
Aoi didn’t respond immediately. The words were stuck, like seeds caught between her teeth. Finally, she asked, “Do you… like who you’re becoming?”
Nene blinked, caught off-guard. “What do you mean?”
“You’re changing. And not just your name, or clothes. You seem… lighter.”
Nene thought for a long moment. Her lips curved in a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. “I do,” she said softly. “I didn’t always. At first, it felt fake. Like I was just playing dress-up and hoping no one noticed. But… when I look in the mirror now, I see someone who might be real. Someone who deserves to be.”
Aoi’s chest tightened. “You are real.”
Nene glanced at her, eyes wide.
“I don’t just mean real as in existing,” Aoi continued, gaze fixed on the ground. “I mean… you’re someone who matters. Who’s allowed to take up space. You don’t have to shrink anymore.” There was silence between them — heavy, but not uncomfortable.
Then, Nene asked, “Why are you saying this now?”
Aoi hesitated.
“Because I’ve been selfish,” she murmured. “I keep pretending this is just friendship. That all I’m feeling is admiration, or support, or…” Her voice caught. “But it’s more than that. I care about you, Nene. And not in the way I thought I was supposed to care about people.”
Nene’s eyes widened. “Aoi…”
“I think I might be bi,” Aoi said, the words trembling as they escaped. “And I think I might love you more than you can handle.” The air shifted.
Nene set her juice box down carefully. Her hands were shaking. “I was so scared to hope for this,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you’d ever…”
“I didn’t think I’d ever,” Aoi said, her laugh brittle. “You’ve always been so open. So certain. And I was terrified that if I said the wrong thing, I’d lose you.”
Nene reached out, hesitant, and took Aoi’s hand. “You won’t,” she said. “Not unless you want to.”
Aoi’s fingers tightened around hers. They didn’t start dating with a grand declaration. There were no fireworks, no candlelit confessions, no swooning in the rain. Instead, it began with fingers brushing in the hallway and not pulling away. It began with Nene taking Aoi’s hand in public for the first time — shakily, like asking a question she wasn’t sure had an answer — and Aoi intertwining their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It began with quiet walks home from school, where neither of them said the word girlfriend, but both knew exactly what they meant when they said “see you tomorrow” a little too softly, or “text me when you’re home” a little too quickly.
Everything about it was new. Aoi had never dated anyone. She had flirted, once or twice, but never meant it. She’d had boys confess to her left and right, and she’d always politely declined. None of it ever clicked. Their first date wasn’t planned. It happened by accident, like most of their moments did. Nene had shown up to Aoi’s house with a DVD of a cheesy romantic anime movie — the kind with too many sparkles and a soft-focus love triangle. She claimed it was for “research,” then got flustered when Aoi raised an eyebrow.
“I just wanna know what normal girls do on dates,” she mumbled, tugging her sleeves over her hands.
Aoi hadn’t expected much from the film, but halfway through, Nene had started crying during a montage of the main couple brushing each other’s hair and baking together. She hid her face in Aoi’s shoulder, trying to laugh it off.
“I’m so lame,” she whispered. “Why am I crying over this?”
“You’re not lame,” Aoi said, curling her arm around Nene’s back without thinking. “You just care deeply. That’s not a bad thing.” They watched the rest of the movie like that, curled together on the couch. When the credits rolled, Nene turned to Aoi with a nervous, serious look.
“Can I try something?”
Aoi blinked. “What?”
Instead of answering, Nene reached forward — gently, almost reverently — and kissed her. It was a short kiss. A little clumsy. Their teeth knocked. But Aoi could still feel it for the rest of the night, like a sun-warm bruise on her mouth.
Dating Nene was a series of firsts that didn’t feel like milestones, but like soft revelations. The first time Nene introduced Aoi as her girlfriend was at the train station, completely by accident. They had run into a classmate from gardening club, and when he asked what they were up to, Nene smiled — all teeth and nerves — and blurted, “Oh, we’re on a date! She’s my girlfriend!” She froze after saying it. Visibly winced. Waited for Aoi to correct her.
But Aoi just looped her arm around Nene’s waist and said, “That’s right.” They didn’t talk for five full minutes after that. Nene stared at the ground the whole way up the escalator.
Finally, she muttered, “Sorry if that was too fast…”
Aoi shook her head. “It wasn’t.”
Nene looked up. “Really?”
“You are allowed,” Aoi said, her voice quiet but steady, “to love out loud.” And that night, when Nene kissed her on the train platform — quick and clumsy and full of hope — Aoi kissed her back without looking around first.
But it wasn’t perfect. There were bad days, too. Nene still struggled with her voice sometimes, flinching when old classmates misgendered her, deflating when a clerk called her “sir.” Aoi did her best to be her shelter, her constant. But there were moments when Aoi didn’t know the right thing to say. Moments where she held Nene and whispered, “I’m sorry,” because words couldn’t fix how cruel the world could be. She loved Nene, but she couldn’t always protect her. And that broke her a little more each time.
Still, through every fear, every slip-up, every hesitation, they returned to each other. They were messy. Young. Learning. But they were in love. And sometimes, when Nene curled beside her after a long day, wearing Aoi’s oversized hoodie and half-asleep from laughing too much, Aoi would look down at her and think: So this is what it’s like. To be loved. To love back. And she’d run her fingers through Nene’s hair, gentle and slow, like tending to a blooming flower.
College came like a tide neither of them were ready for. New cities, new buildings, new friends. Nene transferred to a general arts program, while Aoi got into her top-choice pre-law school. They moved into different dorms. Saw each other less. Texted constantly at first — good mornings, inside jokes, reminders to eat — but slowly, even that began to thin out. Their love didn’t end. It stretched. And stretched. And began to ache. Nene changed again, but this time in ways Aoi couldn’t always understand or keep up.
She started wearing more makeup, obsessing over fashion influencers, trying to blend in. Her anxiety about being "seen" — or not seen — as a girl intensified. Every misgendering hit her like a slap. She began spiraling over the tiniest things: the shape of her jaw, the tone of her voice, the way her professors sometimes paused before using her name. “I just want to be normal,” she said once, sitting on the floor of Aoi’s apartment, hugging her knees.
“You are normal,” Aoi said gently. Nene didn’t respond. She was quiet for a long time.
“Maybe if I had a boyfriend, I’d feel more like a real woman.” The words landed like glass cracking underfoot.
Aoi froze. “What?”
“I mean, just—just to try it,” Nene rushed on. “Like a regular straight relationship. I don’t even mean love, necessarily, but it’d help. Wouldn’t it? To feel… real?”
Aoi couldn’t breathe. “I’m your girlfriend,” she said. “A real one.”
Nene’s eyes filled with panic. “I know, I know, I didn’t mean it like that. I love you, Aoi. I do. I just—sometimes it feels like I’m pretending. Like everyone else gets to grow up and date and be seen the way they want, and I’m stuck halfway.” A pause. “You’re not a placeholder,” Nene added quickly, but the damage was done.
They fought for the first time that night. Not with shouting or cruel words — they didn’t know how to be cruel to each other. Instead, it was long silences. Half-finished texts. Tired sighs over video calls. Aoi stopped visiting on weekends. Nene stopped asking why. They loved each other, but they’d stopped reaching for each other. The breakup wasn’t even a breakup. It was a mutual unraveling.
“I think we need time,” Aoi said one rainy night, hands folded on her lap like she was holding herself together.
Nene nodded. “Maybe we rushed into something too big for us.” They didn’t cry. Not in front of each other. They just sat on opposite ends of the couch, and eventually said goodbye like classmates parting after a school project. But that night, Aoi broke down in the shower. It should've been their third year anniversary. She clutched her own chest and sobbed until her ribs ached.
And across campus, Nene curled up in the corner of her dorm room, wearing one of Aoi’s cardigans like armor, breathing in the ghost of her.
It took a full year for Nene to realize what she had done. Dating a boy wouldn’t have fixed anything. Because it wasn’t about being validated by someone masculine. It was about feeling worthy of being loved — as herself. And Aoi had always seen her. Loved her. Called her beautiful without needing explanation.
Letting her go had been a mistake born of fear. A reckless, irreversible kind of fear. But Nene had changed. And so had Aoi. Would she still want her?
Aoi never really stopped waiting.
She would have denied it if asked — said she was fine, that she was busy with coursework, that she had moved on. But in the quiet moments between classes or when she brewed tea late at night, the ache was still there. Subtle, constant. She didn’t delete Nene’s contact. She didn’t unpin her messages. She even kept the cardigan Nene left behind, folded neatly in her closet, untouched. It still smelled faintly like her — like vanilla lip balm and strawberry shampoo.
Aoi had never told anyone, not even herself, just how much she hoped Nene would come back. But she also knew better now. People didn’t always stay. Her father didn’t. Her mother was too busy with chemo. Her friends were kind but distant. Even Nene — the one person she let all the way in — had walked away.
So she built a shell around herself. Thin but stubborn. Her laugh became more practiced. Her silences longer. She focused on law school. Studied late. Volunteered. Smiled when expected. And beneath it all, she waited. Quietly. Until Nene returned. It happened on a dusky Thursday evening, just before midterms. Aoi was heading home from the library, exhausted and irritated with herself for forgetting her umbrella. The rain was soft but relentless — a gentle, cold kind of wet that clung to her sleeves.
She didn’t notice the figure by the dorm gates at first. Then the silhouette shifted.
Aoi froze. Nene stood under a shared umbrella, holding it low, as if trying to shrink. She looked different. Her hair was longer now, dyed soft honey-blonde with teal tips. Her makeup more subtle. She looked like she had grown up in the time they’d been apart — but when she met Aoi’s eyes, she still had that same expression.
Hopeful. Hesitant. Full of longing.
“Hi,” Nene said, voice barely louder than the rain.
Aoi felt everything at once. Relief. Anger. Love. Fear. She didn’t speak. Her feet stayed rooted to the pavement.
“I didn’t think you’d stop,” Nene added, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. “I kind of thought you’d walk right past me.”
Aoi opened her mouth — then closed it again. She didn’t trust herself to speak yet.
“I was a coward,” Nene said quietly. “And I didn’t know what I had until I broke it. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”
A long pause.
“Can I… can I talk to you? Just for a little while?”
They ended up in a small café nearby — Aoi’s usual haunt. She didn’t offer her hand. She didn’t smile. But she didn’t walk away either. Nene sipped nervously from a cup of cocoa she hadn’t touched. Aoi stared at her tea as if the answer to everything might be in the leaves. “I never stopped loving you,” Nene said.
Aoi looked up, slowly.
“I mean it,” Nene continued. “I thought I needed something else to feel like myself. But I didn’t need a boyfriend. I didn’t need anyone else. I just… needed time to understand that I was already whole. And that you loved me like that before I ever did.”
Aoi didn’t cry. But her voice cracked when she finally spoke. “I waited,” she whispered. “You left, and I waited, even though I knew better.”
Nene’s face crumpled. “I was terrified,” Aoi continued. “Not just of losing you — but of being right. That everyone I love leaves. That I’ll never be enough to stay for.”
“That’s not true,” Nene said fiercely. “You are enough. I was the one who—”
“You were scared,” Aoi said, cutting her off gently. “So was I. Maybe we both still are.” Silence. Then Aoi looked down at her cup, fingers tightening slightly around it. “I don’t know if I can trust you yet,” she said. “I want to. But I’m scared of believing in something again just to watch it fall apart.”
Nene nodded slowly. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “Then let me prove it.”
Aoi looked at her.
“I won’t push,” Nene said. “I won’t beg you to come back. I’ll show up. I’ll be here. I’ll earn it. I want to be with you — not because I need to be seen, or validated, or fixed. But because I love you. And I love who I am when I’m beside you.”
That did it. A crack in Aoi’s armor. She let out a shaky breath and whispered, “You always say the right things.”
“I practiced,” Nene said, trying to smile through the sting in her eyes. “For months. Every night.” They sat in silence again. But this time, it wasn’t cold. And when they left the café, Aoi didn’t offer her hand — but she walked a little closer than before.
Nene messaged her every morning, just like she used to. Aoi didn’t always reply right away, but she read every word. They began meeting once a week. No labels. Just... spending time. Lunch in quiet campus cafés. Studying side-by-side. Walking through the botanical gardens when the weather allowed, Aoi’s favorite spot. Nene always brought snacks. Aoi always brought hand cream for Nene’s dry fingers, because she still forgot to take care of herself.
Nene never pushed. She didn’t ask for forgiveness. She showed it.
She helped carry Aoi’s books when her back ached. She sent voice memos of cheesy jokes when Aoi had long nights of studying. She brought tea and snacks and once even waited outside Aoi’s lecture hall for two hours just to walk her home. Aoi tried not to soften — but she did. Because Nene had changed. Not just in how she looked — though she stood taller now, spoke more confidently, smiled with more sincerity. But in how she listened. In how she loved.
She no longer begged to be seen. Nene knew who she was now — and chose to love Aoi not out of need, but out of devotion. And slowly, gently, Aoi let herself believe again.
One evening, after a particularly stressful mock trial presentation, Aoi broke. Nene was waiting for her outside the law building, as promised. Aoi stepped outside, tense and exhausted, and before she could help it, her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I forgot a whole section,” she said, voice trembling. “The professor asked me to repeat my argument, and I blanked.”
Nene didn’t say anything. She just opened her arms. Aoi stepped into them. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself lean on someone.
“I’m so tired,” she whispered. “Of everything. Of being strong. Of pretending I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Nene whispered back. “You never did.” They didn’t kiss that night, but something shifted. And two weeks later, in the soft glow of Aoi’s apartment, while sharing a futon and watching a movie they weren’t really paying attention to, Aoi finally said it out loud.
“I want to try again.”
Nene froze. “Try…?”
“Us.” A pause. A heartbeat.
Nene’s eyes filled with tears. “You mean it?”
Aoi nodded, voice gentle but firm. “I don’t know if I can forget the past. But I’m ready to forgive it. If we can start slow. Really slow.”
Nene smiled through the tears. “I’ll take slow. I’ll take anything, as long as it’s you.” And when they kissed, Aoi was back home. A few months passed. They weren’t perfect. Aoi still had nights where she couldn’t stop the flood of doubts. Nene still had moments of insecurity — the occasional wince when someone gave her a second glance, or when her voice cracked the wrong way.
But they held each other through it all. They attended pride events together. Nene introduced Aoi to her newer queer friends, who welcomed her with quiet warmth and zero judgment. Aoi’s classmates began noticing she smiled more. And then, one morning in late spring, Aoi found herself staring at a small plastic stick in the bathroom sink.
Two pink lines.
Her breath caught. Her fingers trembled. She didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, she sat down on the cool tile floor, held her knees, and whispered, “Okay. Okay. Okay.” That evening, she told Nene. She didn’t know how to say it — so she didn’t. She simply handed her the test and sat across from her on the bed. Nene stared at it for a long time. Then her eyes widened. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again.
“You’re—?”
Aoi nodded, hands trembling in her lap. “I’m pregnant.” The silence between them was thick and vibrating. A thousand things unsaid. Then Nene let out a choked laugh — half-giddy, half-disbelieving.
“Wait. You’re— You’re actually pregnant?”
“I missed a pill. A month ago. I didn’t think—” Aoi paused. “I’ve already seen a doctor. It’s real.”
Nene didn’t speak. Just crossed the room in two steps and wrapped Aoi in her arms so tightly she could barely breathe. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “Aoi. We’re having a baby.”
Aoi exhaled shakily. “Are you… okay?”
Nene pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. “I’m terrified,” she said honestly. “But I’m so happy. And I want this. I want us. I want them.”
Aoi laughed, then finally began to cry. Not out of fear. But from something warm, and deep, and real. And in that moment, she knew: Nene wasn’t going anywhere.
The next few months following the good news, the law changed, it didn’t feel like a revolution. No fireworks, no rainbow parades. Just a quiet news alert on Aoi’s phone between classes: “Same-sex marriage legalized nationwide.” She read it twice. Then again. She was in the middle of a dense legal theory lecture, but the words blurred on the page. All she could think about was Nene. Her girlfriend. The mother of their unborn child. Her almost-wife.
They hadn’t talked about marriage in depth — not yet. It felt too big, too delicate, after everything they’d rebuilt. But now… it was possible. Aoi’s heart beat faster. Not with fear. But something else. Something that felt suspiciously like hope. That night, she came home to the sound of music humming softly from the kitchen. Nene was making miso soup, still in her hoodie, her hair up in a messy bun that Aoi adored. There was a tenderness in the way she stirred the pot. A slowness to her movements. And when she turned and saw Aoi in the doorway, her whole face lit up.
“Hey,” she said, voice soft, full of the love that lived between them now like breath. Aoi didn’t answer. She crossed the kitchen, took Nene’s hands in hers, and held them close.
“Marry me.”
Nene blinked. “Wha—?”
“I’m serious,” Aoi said. Her voice trembled, but she didn’t look away. “Let’s get married. Not later. Not after graduation in 2 years. Now. Before the baby comes. While the world still lets us.”
Nene’s lip quivered. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Aoi whispered. “I want our child to come into this world knowing we fought for this. That we chose this. I want her to know her parents loved each other enough to build a family — even if no one else understood it.”
Nene’s eyes filled with tears. “But we haven’t planned anything. No dress, no rings—”
“We don’t need any of that.”
Aoi was already smiling. “We just need a name and a signature. And maybe… a kiss.”
Nene laughed through her tears. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” Nene whispered, touching Aoi’s cheek. “God, I do.”
They eloped three days later. No guests. No aisle. No bouquet. Just a city hall clerk with a neutral expression, a laminated form, and a passing comment of “Congratulations,” that sounded more like protocol than sentiment — but they didn’t care. Aoi wore a pressed white blouse and a navy skirt. Nene wore a soft pink sweater dress and a small clip in her hair that Aoi had once bought her as a joke. It was shaped like a tiny cherry blossom.
They held hands the whole time. When the clerk asked who would take whose name, they paused. Looked at each other. Nene smiled first. When the paper was signed, Nene whispered: “So, does this make me your wife now?”
Aoi flushed. “I guess so.”
“And you mine,” Nene said, beaming.
It was a tiny ceremony. No one took photos. There was no cake. They walked out of city hall with the certificate folded in Nene’s purse and rain starting to fall again from a gray spring sky. But Aoi had never felt more sacred. They kissed on the sidewalk, umbrellas forgotten. Nene’s hands in Aoi’s hair, Aoi’s hands on Nene’s belly. Their daughter kicked, as if cheering. They went home soaked in rainwater and laughter, hung the marriage license on the fridge with a cat magnet, and fell asleep wrapped around each other. Kissing endlessly to make sure the moment didn't slip by unremembered.
That night, for the first time in years, Aoi dreamt of peace.
The baby books said she’d arrive in six weeks. Six weeks felt like forever and Six weeks felt like no time at all. Their tiny shared dorm had become a nursery in disguise — pastel blankets folded on every surface, baby wipes in the kitchen drawers, a half-assembled crib looming like a puzzle neither of them could solve. Aoi had color-coded a checklist. Nene had bought five different onesies with cartoon cats on them.
They were trying their best.
Most days, Aoi floated somewhere between nerves and wonder. She read everything she could — pregnancy forums, law articles on LGBTQ+ parental rights, even birth plans with color-coded tabs. She asked her professor for deadline extensions and started going to prenatal yoga classes, even though she hated the smell of incense. She kept a journal, too — short letters to their unborn daughter, written in careful, slanted handwriting.
"
Your mama’s really tired today. But Nene made soup, and the smell made me cry."
"I felt you kick while we were watching a court drama last night. You clearly disapproved of their legal strategy."
She called herself Mama. Always Mama. But every time she tried to ask Nene what she wanted to be called, Nene dodged. The breaking point came one lazy afternoon, while folding tiny socks. Aoi held up a yellow pair with ducklings on them, laughing. “They’re so small they could fit your thumbs.” She turned, waiting for Nene’s smile.
But Nene wasn’t smiling.
She was staring at the socks like they’d betrayed her. Her fingers were twisting the hem of her oversized hoodie, her lip trembling.
“Hey,” Aoi said gently. “What’s wrong?”
Nene didn’t answer at first. Just sat down on the edge of the bed, blinking too quickly. Finally, she said, “What if she calls me Dad?” The room went quiet. Outside, a breeze rattled the windowpane.
Aoi sat beside her, careful and close. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
Nene nodded, eyes still fixed on her lap. “I know it’s stupid. I know I should just be happy. But I keep thinking about it. About someone pointing at me when she’s a toddler and saying, ‘Is that your dad?’ And she’ll say yes. Because she won’t know better. And I’ll have to smile. Like it doesn’t hurt.” She was crying now. “I don’t want to be ‘Dad,’ Aoi,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be ‘Papa.’ I know I didn’t carry her, but I still want to be her mom. I want to be soft, and warm, and… me.”
Aoi didn’t speak. She took Nene’s hands in hers and kissed her knuckles, one by one.
“You are her mom,” she said, voice like a promise. “You’re already her mom.”
“But what if people—”
“People will say stupid things,” Aoi interrupted. “People always do. But our daughter will grow up with two mothers who love her more than anything. And from the beginning, she’ll learn that love is bigger than words. We’ll teach her that.”
Nene looked up at her then, eyes shimmering. “Even if it confuses people?”
“Let them be confused,” Aoi said fiercely. “Let them choke on it, for all I care. She’ll call you ‘Mama Nene.’ Or whatever you want. You get to decide. Not them.”
Nene gave a watery laugh. “Mama Nene sounds like a kid’s cartoon character.”
“Then we’ll be cartoon characters,” Aoi said, pulling her into a hug. “Strong ones. Queer ones. Soft, silly, beautiful ones.”
Nene melted into her arms, nodding against her shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time — surrounded by tiny socks, an unfinished mobile, and all the things they didn’t yet know how to do. Aoi ended up whining her belly felt too heavy. She needed to sit. They had time. And each other. Aoi added a new journal entry when Nene wasn't looking:
"She’ll call you Mama Nene. Because that’s who you are. And you’ll be the kind of mom who sings to her in the bath, who gets flour everywhere when you bake cookies, who lets her try on your lipstick when she’s four. You’ll be wonderful. You already are."
The contractions started just after midnight. At first, Aoi thought they were cramps — maybe too much tea, or the baby just pressing awkwardly on her bladder again. But then they came again. And again. Nene noticed first. She always did. “You’re sweating,” she said, sitting up in bed, her voice hushed with concern. “Is it… time?”
Aoi looked at her. There was something in her eyes — not panic, but something close. “I think so.”
The hospital room was colder than expected. The walls were beige. The lighting was soft but too clinical. Aoi hated every second of the waiting — the machines beeping, the nurses rushing, the low hum of other people in labor down the hall. But Nene was there. Always just beside her. Holding her hand through every wave of pain. Whispering comfort. Stroking her damp hair back from her forehead.
“You’re doing amazing,” she murmured again and again. “You’re so strong, Aoi. I’m so proud of you.”
Aoi had never felt anything so painful in her life. Her body felt like it was tearing open, unraveling, being remade. But through the haze, through the sweat and noise, she kept her eyes locked on Nene. At 6:03 AM, their daughter was born. She entered the world with a scream that was so loud, so full of raw life, that Aoi burst into tears the moment she heard it.
Nene was already crying.
The nurse handed Aoi the tiny, wriggling bundle — slippery and flushed and furious — and placed her gently against her chest. The room fell silent. Aoi held her daughter like something holy. Nene leaned in, brushing a kiss against Aoi’s forehead, then the baby’s.
“She’s so small,” Nene whispered. “She’s perfect.”
Aoi looked at her, and then, just as naturally, she retorted with a snort “She looks so ugly...”
Nene shook her head in disbelief. “No. No way.”
But Aoi wasn’t joking. She meant it. This was their ugly little thing. She loved it so much. Loved their daughter so much. Because something in that child’s expression — fierce, stubborn, full of soul — reminded her of the same girl who once joined the gardening club just to be close to her, who cried into her shoulder after her father left, who rebuilt her whole self and came back braver, kinder, more certain. This was their child.
Theirs.
A nurse asked, “Do you have a name picked out?” Aoi looked to Nene. And Nene, voice shaking, answered softly:
“Her name is Hikari.”
Meaning Light. Aoi smiled through the tears. “Hikari Yashiro.”
“Beautiful,” the nurse said, scribbling on a chart. And then, gently, she asked: “Will Hikari be going home with her mother and father?”
A silence. A moment suspended. Nene’s shoulders tensed. Just slightly.
But Aoi answered, firm and without hesitation: “She’s going home with her mothers.”
The nurse blinked, then nodded quickly. “Of course. My apologies.”
But the damage was done. Nene looked down at her hands. At her chest. At the small, squalling baby who had already begun to settle against Aoi’s skin. She didn’t speak again until they were alone after the room emptied and Hikari had fallen asleep curled like a comma against Aoi’s chest, Nene sat beside the hospital bed, head bowed, quiet.
Aoi turned to her. “Talk to me.”
Nene hesitated. “I was so scared. When she came out. When they asked…” Her voice cracked. “What if she never sees me as her mom? What if I’m just someone who lives in the house? What if she’s embarrassed? What if—”
“Nene.” Aoi reached for her hand. Pressed it against Hikari’s tiny foot. “She’s going to love you. So much.”
“But what if she—”
“She’ll call you Mama Nene. You’ll be the one who sings to her when she’s sick. Who puts stickers on her lunchbox. Who lets her stay up past bedtime when I’m being strict.” Aoi leaned closer, her voice warm, steady. “She won’t just love you. She’ll know you.”
Nene’s eyes welled up again. “You really think so?”
Aoi smiled. “I know so.”
Hikari turned one month old on a Tuesday. There were no balloons, no big celebrations. Just a quiet afternoon: lullabies from Nene’s playlist humming in the background, Aoi dozing on the couch with Hikari asleep on her chest, and Nene in the kitchen icing cupcakes with the softest pink frosting she could manage. She’d been practicing piping flowers for weeks. They looked messy. Uneven. But somehow perfect. She snapped a picture of the cupcakes, then one of Aoi and Hikari curled together, cheeks pressed close.
The truth was — even one month into motherhood, Nene was still scared. Not of Hikari. Not of her. But of the world. Of what it might do to them. She was afraid of grocery store stares. Of teachers who might misgender her. Of the awkward silences when she signed “Mother” on a school form. She was afraid of how deeply she loved her daughter — and how easily that love could be taken from her.
That afternoon, when Aoi woke up, Nene leaned over and whispered, “I’m going to the corner store. We’re out of wipes.”
“Don’t be long,” Aoi murmured, still half-asleep.
Nene smiled, kissed her, and left. She didn’t come home. Not for dinner. Not when the sky turned orange. Not when Hikari woke up, crying. Aoi tried her phone. No answer. Texted. No read receipts. By nightfall, she called the police. Finally, the hospital called at 1:37 AM. 3 hours after she filled the police report. She doesn’t remember how she got there — only the cold fluorescent hallway, the blur of a nurse explaining what happened.
“There was a protest. It got violent.”
“They targeted her?” Aoi asked.
“She was alone. They cornered her outside the store.”
“They knew?” She was starting to lose her voice.
“We believe so.”
“She— Is she—?” Aoi's demeanour was shaken,
The nurse hesitated. Her mouth tightened. “She didn’t suffer.”
Nene Yashiro died in the early hours of a Wednesday morning. She was found in the alley beside the store, bruised, broken, bleeding. Her purse had been stolen. Her ID was missing. Aoi was only notified after they recognized the tattoo on her wrist: a small sakura blossom she’d gotten when Hikari was born. Aoi had held onto hope longer than anyone. Even when her knees gave out in the ER. Even when the doctor used the words “hate crime.” Even when they brought her Nene’s cracked phone in a plastic bag, and the lockscreen was still the selfie they’d taken in bed the night Hikari was born.
The funeral was a blur. Too many flowers. Too many empty condolences. Too many people who had smiled in Nene’s face while misgendering her behind her back.
Some didn’t come at all.
A few sent cards with Nene’s deadname printed in bold cursive. Aoi ripped them up before they reached the crib. Her mother had died the year before. Her father hadn’t spoken to her in over a decade due to his affair. By the time the casseroles stopped arriving, Aoi was utterly alone. Except for Hikari. Her daughter — their daughter — had just learned to smile.
And now Aoi smiled back through tears. Because she had to. She studied for law finals with Hikari asleep in a wrap against her chest. She pumped breastmilk into bottles at 2AM. She rocked the baby to sleep between readings on gender discrimination and civil rights.
The world had taken Nene.
But Aoi refused to let it take their daughter, too. She whispered stories to her every night — of a woman named Nene, who was soft and stubborn and wore pink like armor. Who fought to be seen. Who loved fiercely. Who kissed Aoi like the world was ending. Who had once folded tiny socks and worried about being called “Papa.”
“Mama Nene,” Aoi would whisper to Hikari, “was the bravest person I ever met.”
The pink cupcakes remained in the fridge. Uneaten. Shriveling. But Aoi left them there. A reminder. A promise. That one day, when Hikari was old enough to ask about her other mom, Aoi would tell her everything. And she would begin, always, with love. Grief didn't crash down like a wave. It settled like dust — in the spaces between feedings, in the silence after lullabies. In the way the apartment still smelled faintly of Nene’s conditioner, and how sometimes, in the stillness of early morning, Aoi thought she heard her humming in the next room.
Hikari was four months old now.
She had Nene’s eyes — wide and soft, always searching. Sometimes Aoi would catch her gazing into empty corners, as if expecting someone. Aoi wondered if babies could remember love. If, somewhere inside her, Hikari still felt the warmth of being held by both mothers. Mornings were a blur of diapers, formula, and laptop screens. Aoi balanced Hikari on her hip while logging into Zoom lectures, keeping herself muted when Hikari babbled too loudly. Professors gave her polite nods. Most classmates didn’t say much anymore.
They didn’t know what to say.
She was The Beautiful Widow in the 4th dorm apartment building. The quiet one. The one who rarely spoke unless called on. Her outlines were still meticulous. Her papers still pristine. But she no longer stayed after class. No longer joined group chats. The part of her that once delighted in legal debate had curled inward, smaller. The only space where she still let herself feel like Aoi — the real Aoi — was when she was with Hikari.
One night, after hours of case readings and bottle sterilizing, she stood by the crib and watched her daughter sleep. The mobile above her spun lazily — hand-painted stars Nene had ordered from an Etsy store two weeks before the birth. She had been so excited about them. Said they looked like tiny planets. Said Hikari would grow up believing she came from a galaxy of love. Aoi reached out and touched one of the stars. It swayed gently.
“You know,” she whispered, “Mama Nene would’ve sung to you right now. She had the softest voice. Even when she couldn’t hold a tune.” She smiled through her tears. “She would've danced with you in the kitchen. She would've let you wear her lipstick and call it armor. You’d have loved her.”
She swallowed. So did the silence. “But I’m here,” she added, voice cracking. “And I’ll love you enough for both of us.”
Her days followed a rhythm now. Up at 5:30. Lecture at 9. Study sessions while Hikari napped. Formula prep. Crying fits. Laundry. More crying fits (sometimes hers). Law review notes. A podcast while bottle-feeding. Rewatching a video of Nene laughing in the park, cheeks flushed, as Hikari kicked her tiny feet.
It was manageable. Just barely.
But grief still lived in the walls of their "home". In the coat Nene never took to the dry cleaner. In the mismatched socks she once folded with so much pride. In the empty space beside Aoi in bed. Some nights, Aoi dreamed of the wedding that never was. Not the courthouse rush. Not the elopement. But the real one — the one they talked about when Nene curled around her belly and kissed it like a secret.
She dreamed of Nene in a white dress. Of vows in soft pink ink. Of baby Hikari cradled by their friends. Of no fear. No hiding. Just joy. Then she would wake up alone. Always alone. She didn't know how long she could go one with this routine. Without help, without friends. Without family.