Chapter Text
Of all days, the day I turned ten felt strangely… normal.
That was probably the first sign something was off.
I spent the afternoon the way I liked best: controller in hand, knees tucked up on the sofa, the glow of the TV painting my room in soft blues and greens. The game was some RPG with sparkly spells and overly dramatic victory music—comfort food for my brain. I wasn’t bad at talking to people, exactly. I had friends at school. I laughed when I was supposed to. But screens never asked me to be quick or clever or brave. They waited for me.
Haruna didn’t.
She was sprawled on the floor with her legs kicking back and forth, humming the opening song to the new magical girl anime that had started last week. Eight years old and already full of sunshine, my little sister had watched the first episode with three friends, two neighbors, and a girl she’d “just met but she’s nice!” She talked about it like she’d lived it.
“Onee-chan,” she said, rolling onto her back so her upside-down face popped into my vision. “If you were a magical girl, what would your power be?”
I paused the game. “Uh… I guess inventory management like in video games? I like how the hero can carry around dozens of swords and lot of money without struggling.”
She giggled. “Eh? That’s a boring power! Why not ask something like being able to fly or to breath underwater.”
“Eh? But carrying things around is bothersome. I want something that help with it.”
Haruna sat up, eyes sparkling. “I’d like to have healing powers and friendship beams that makes anyone hit by it into my friends.”
“Of course you would.”
She smiled like that was the nicest thing I could have said. I took the opportunity to pat her head, earning a nod from her.
We were still arguing—politely, loudly—about whether the mascot character was secretly evil when footsteps came down the hallway. Heavy ones. Adult ones. I felt it before I saw them: the way the air tightened, like the moment right before a boss fight.
Mom and Dad stood in the doorway.
They were smiling, but not really. Their mouths did the shape of smiles while their eyes stayed serious, tired. Dad’s hand was on Mom’s shoulder. Mom’s fingers were clenched into her sleeve.
“Hey,” Dad said. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Haruna tilted her head. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No,” Mom said quickly. Too quickly. “No, sweetheart. Not at all.”
I saved my game session and turned the console off as they sat us down at the table. Juice was poured but nobody drank.
They talked for a while without actually saying anything. Grown-up words floated around like fog—thinking carefully, what’s best, we both love you very much. Haruna’s legs swung under her chair. I stared at the condensation sliding down my cup, counting the drops so I wouldn’t have to look at their faces.
Then Dad took a breath.
“We’re going to live separately starting next week,” he said. “Your mom and I… we’re getting divorced.”
The word landed with a dull thud, like something breaking underwater.
I knew what it meant. I wasn’t a baby. I’d seen it in dramas and in games. Still, knowing a word and feeling it are very different things.
Haruna blinked. “So… like different houses?”
“Yes,” Mom said softly. “Different houses. I will be returning to your grandparent's house in the countryside.”
“And—” Dad hesitated, then continued, “we want you girls to choose who you want to live with.”
Choose.
My chest tightened. The room felt too big, too bright. My brain, which could keep track of party stats and quest lines just fine, suddenly couldn’t process this one decision. Choose Mom and lose Dad. Choose Dad and lose Mom. No correct route. No reload.
I felt my face crumple before I could stop it.
“I—I can’t,” I said, the words coming out wet and broken. “I can’t choose.”
Mom was beside me instantly, arms warm and familiar. I buried my face into her shoulder, sobbing in a way that embarrassed me even as I did it. Ten years old, crying like a toddler. But I couldn’t help it.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, rubbing my back in slow circles. “It’s okay. No one is at fault here, Renako. Sometimes adults make choices that don’t line up anymore. It’s not because of you. It’s not because of Haruna. It's just life.”
Her voice wavered, just a little. That scared me more than anything.
Dad told us to take some time to think. They walked us back to our shared room, turned off the lights, said goodnight like everything was the same as yesterday.
It wasn’t.
I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, listening to cards driving past the house outside. Every sound felt louder. My portable game console sat on my desk, abandoned. I didn’t want worlds I could escape into. I wanted this one to stop moving.
After a while—minutes, maybe hours—I slid out of bed and padded across the floor. Haruna was awake too. I could tell by the way her eyes opened immediately when I lifted her blanket.
I crawled in beside her without asking and wrapped my arms around her small, warm body. She smelled nice, a fragrance that instantly made me calm down.
She hugged me back just as tightly.
“Onee-chan,” she whispered. “What do we do?”
I pressed my forehead against hers, my voice barely there.
“…I don’t know,” I said. “What do you think we should do?”
Haruna didn’t answer right away.
We lay there, pressed together under her blanket, listening to the quiet hum of the world around us. It felt different now—like it was holding its breath. I thought about the past year, how I’d noticed things without really understanding them. Dad coming home late, smiling too stiffly, smelling like a sweet perfume that wasn’t Mom’s. Mom disappearing some weekends, saying she had errands, coming back tired in a way sleep didn’t fix.
The arguments, too.
At first they were polite. Calm voices with sharp edges. Words like schedules and money and you never listen. Recently, though, they’d gotten louder. Doors closing harder than necessary. Haruna squeezing my hand when voices rose, both of us pretending we were focused on our homework while our stomachs twisted into knots. I was scared. Scared more than ever.
I whispered, “I don’t want anyone to be sad.”
“Me neither,” Haruna murmured.
We were quiet again. I could almost hear our thoughts bumping into each other, clumsy and half-formed. We knew this was coming. Maybe not today, maybe not with that word, but the feeling had been there for a while. Like a crack in glass that kept spreading no matter how carefully you handled it.
“I think…” Haruna started, then stopped. She took a breath, small but determined. “I think I’ll go with Mom.”
My heart jumped. “What?”
“She needs someone,” Haruna said softly. “She looks lonely. And she smiles more when I talk a lot.” She paused, then added, “And you’re better with Dad.”
I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. I barely knew how to talk to him without rehearsing it in my head first. But Haruna’s voice was steady in that way she got when she’d already decided something important.
“Then,” she continued, forcing the words out like they might disappear if she hesitated, “you should go with Dad. That way, no one is sad.”
The room tilted.
“That's… I,” I whispered immediately. “We— we’ve always—”
“I know.” Her voice wobbled this time. She grabbed onto my pajama sleeve like she used to when she was smaller. “But if we stay together, one of them will be alone. And that’s worse, right?”
I didn’t have an answer. My chest hurt too much.
We’d always been a set. Be it with matching clothes Mom picked out, our matching pink hair always tied up the same way every morning, holding hands on the way to school because Haruna said it made her feel brave—and because it made me feel less invisible. Ever since Haruna was born, I had never left her side even once. Even when we both started school, we always made sure to spent every second outside classes together. I remember how Haruna threw a tantrum on her first day, saying she wanted to be with me.
The idea of waking up without her in the next bed felt impossible. Like trying to imagine a platformer game without a jump button.
But Haruna was right. In a way only she could be. This was the only route that didn’t feel like a total loss, even if it still hurt everywhere.
“…Okay,” I said, the word scraping my throat on the way out.
We didn’t cry. Not then. It felt like if we started, we’d never stop.
I reached for her hand instead, threading our pinky fingers together. My hands were shaking. “Promise me something.”
She looked at me, eyes big and shining in the dark.
“Promise we’ll meet again,” I said. “Even if we’re apart for a while. Even if it takes a long time. We’ll… we’ll still be sisters. We’ll be a family again. Somehow.”
Haruna nodded immediately, fiercely. “I promise.”
We squeezed our pinkies together, like sealing a spell. A small, childish kind of magic, but it was all we had.
She scooted closer, and I wrapped my arms around her like I could keep the future away if I held tight enough. Her breathing slowly evened out, warm against my chest.
I stayed awake a little longer, staring into the dark, wishing I could pause time the way I paused my games.
Eventually, though, sleep came anyway.
And for that night, at least, we were still together.