The sun had already begun to dip below the horizon when Kaito finally wheeled his bike into the small driveway. Sweat clung to his brow, not from the ride, but from the quiet unease that followed him everywhere lately. He hopped off, leaned the bike against the wall, and walked up to the front door.
Locked.
Of course.
A hollow click of the handle confirmed it—no one was home. Again.
Kaito reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled out his spare key, the metal already warm from the heat of his hand. He slipped it into the lock, turned it, and stepped into the empty house. The silence greeted him like an old friend.
The place still smelled faintly of cigarettes and some kind of flowery perfume—cheap, artificial, and clinging to the walls like a memory. His mother's scent. She hadn't been home last night. Or the night before. Lately, she came and went like a stranger—always late, often drunk, eyes distant. Her once-loving voice had grown cold, sharp, or worse—indifferent.
Reiko used to be the heart of the household. A warm presence, always smiling, humming while she cooked. But something had broken inside her, quietly and completely. Now, she barely spoke to Kaito, and when she did, it felt like a performance.
Kaito kicked off his shoes and padded into the kitchen. The sink was empty. The fridge, nearly so. He opened a cabinet and grabbed a cup ramen. Third one this week. Maybe fourth. He'd lost count.
He filled the kettle with water, lit the gas stove, and stood there staring at the flickering flame.
His father, Kensuke, wouldn't be back for hours. If he came back tonight at all. Most nights, the man stumbled into his study with a bottle tucked under one arm and his workbag under the other. He'd pass out at the desk, surrounded by spreadsheets, old whiskey, and the stale air of unspoken disappointment.
Their home had become a ghost of what it once was—rooms filled with silence, resentment, and the echo of things left unsaid.
Kaito's stomach growled, but he barely noticed. His grades had started slipping. His teachers mentioned his "lack of focus," but they didn't see the bags under his eyes or the nights he lay awake wondering when everything had started to rot.
The kettle hissed. He poured the boiling water into the cup, watched the dry noodles soften and curl like something trying to wake up.
He sat at the table, eating in silence.
There was no warmth in this house anymore. Just shadows.
And Kaito was beginning to realize something terrifying: no one was coming to save him from it.
Kaito carried the steaming cup of noodles up the stairs, each step creaking faintly under his feet. He pushed open his bedroom door and slipped inside, gently closing it behind him.
This room was his sanctuary. If the world outside was crumbling, in here it was still whole—still his.
The walls were alive with color and heroes. A massive poster of the Straw Hat Crew from One Piece smiled down at him, frozen mid-adventure. On the opposite wall, the boys of Karasuno High from Haikyuu!! soared toward imaginary heights, their eyes burning with passion. Between them stood Usain Bolt in his iconic lightning pose, frozen forever in triumph. And above his desk, bold black kanji spelled out "Discipline" in sweeping brushstrokes, a daily reminder of what he believed in.
Beside it hung a replica katana, polished, untouched. A symbol, maybe. Of strength. Of control.
His PS5 sat silently under the TV, flanked by stacks of games and a manga shelf overflowing with titles. Tokyo Revengers, Blue Lock, Jujutsu Kaisen, Naruto—worlds where pain made sense, where the struggle had a purpose.
Kaito sat cross-legged on his futon and turned on the TV, letting the background chatter fill the silence. But his eyes didn't really watch. His noodles sat forgotten beside him.
His mind wouldn't stop.
I'm trying so hard... at track, at studying… and they don't even notice. Neither of them.
He looked around his room, at the posters, the shelves, the little things that used to bring him joy.
Why am I struggling so much? Why am I even trying this hard?
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his mother. Three days? Maybe more. Her perfume had faded from the hallway. Her voice was a ghost.
And his father? They hadn't had a real conversation in months. Not one where Kensuke wasn't half-asleep or half-drunk. Not one that mattered.
I thought I was doing it for myself, he told himself. Because I love running, because I love pushing myself.
And it was true. He loved the track. The wind against his face. The thrill of racing others. The sharp clarity of focus before the gunshot.
But behind all of it, there had always been something else—a hope. That if he ran fast enough, worked hard enough, scored high enough... maybe they'd look at him and smile again.
But now they don't care. So… why should I?
The tears came without warning. Just one at first, then another, tracing a slow, quiet path down his cheek.
The TV kept playing. Some variety show. Laughter. Applause. So loud and empty.
Kaito lay down without even pulling the blanket over himself. The noodles remained untouched on the floor. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.
Somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered:
I don't want to give up. But I don't know how to keep going either.
And with that thought, his body finally surrendered to exhaustion. He drifted into sleep, a tear sliding silently onto his pillow.
A sharp growl from his stomach pulled Kaito out of a restless sleep.
He blinked against the dim glow of his room, wiping the crust from his eyes. His Casio watch read 2:03 AM. The untouched cup noodles sat beside him, now cold and swollen, the broth absorbed into a soggy mess.
With a sigh, he stood up and stretched, limbs heavy and stiff. He padded down the hallway in his socks, the wooden floor cool beneath his feet.
In the kitchen, he quietly boiled water again and prepared a fresh cup of instant ramen—his second attempt at dinner.
As the water bubbled and steam rose, Kaito heard the creak of the front door. A moment later, it clicked shut.
Dad?
He walked softly across the hall and stopped outside his father's study. The door was slightly ajar. Light spilled through the crack, flickering shadows across the hallway.
Curious—and half hoping for something normal, something human—Kaito pushed the door open just a little.
The air reeked of alcohol.
Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the yellow glow of a desk lamp and the pale shine of two monitors. One showed a cluttered spreadsheet—rows and columns stretching into meaninglessness. The other…
Kaito froze.
The other monitor was playing a video. The kind you don't expect—or want—to see in your father's study.
Kensuke was slumped in his chair, pants around his ankles, one hand still loosely clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Used tissues littered the floor. His breathing was heavy, uneven.
Kaito backed away, a wave of nausea and shame rising in his throat. He didn't know if it was from hunger, disgust, or something deeper.
He ran—back to his room, back to the only space that still felt like his.
His appetite vanished. The noodles sat untouched, again.
In the silence, he checked his phone.
No messages. No missed calls.
No mom.
His fingers trembled slightly as he tapped her contact.
Calling…
The line rang.
And rang.
No answer.
He called again, this time gripping the phone tighter.
Somewhere across town, a soft ringtone buzzed in a dimly lit, pink-tinted room. A heart-shaped bed lay at the center. Reiko was sprawled across it, lips locked with a bald, older man, his skin marked with faded tattoos and the lines of age.
On the TV, a muted adult film played—unnoticed background noise to their twisted intimacy.
Reiko's phone kept ringing.
The man pulled back, scowling. "Answer it, or I'll break it, you stupid bitch."
Reiko flinched. "I'm sorry, sir," she mumbled, scrambling off the bed.
She picked up the phone.
"Kaito?"
"Hey, Mom... where are you?"
There was a pause.
Her voice changed, laced with practiced calm. "I'm... I'm at a friend's house, sweetheart. I'll come back in the morning, okay?"
From the bed, the man barked, "Hurry the hell up!"
Kaito heard it—his heart sank.
"Mom? What's going on? Who—?"
"I've got to go," she said quickly. "We'll talk later."
The line went dead.
He stared at his phone screen for a long time, the empty call log glowing back at him.
No one was coming.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever.
Kaito put the phone down, turned off the TV, and crawled back under his blanket, still dressed.
And this time, the tears didn't fall.
Only silence.
The alarm didn't wake him. Hunger did.
Kaito stirred under his blanket, his stomach tying itself in knots. His throat was dry. He rubbed his face and sat up slowly, eyes gritty with sleep. The Casio watch on his wrist read 7:32 AM.
He hadn't eaten anything—still.
Dragging his feet, he made his way down to the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of burnt toast and overcooked eggs. The sink was a mess—greasy pans, plates stained with yolk, utensils scattered like someone had cooked in a rush and left without a second thought.
Dad must've made himself breakfast before leaving for work.
Kaito stood there in the doorway, staring at the clutter like it was evidence at a crime scene.
He didn't want to think about what he saw last night. Didn't want to remember his father passed out half-naked in his study, monitors glowing with shame. Didn't want to imagine the man yelling on the phone with his mother—or picture her naked in some stranger's bed, apologizing like a servant.
He gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.
If she's cheating… If she's already found someone else… then our family is finished.
And the worst part?
I don't think Dad would even care. He wouldn't yell. Wouldn't fight. He'd probably just drink until he forgot.
Kaito clenched his jaw, then shut his eyes tight.
Forget it. Forget all of it.
He took a deep breath. Held it.
Then let it out.
"...Fuck it," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I don't care either."
He opened his eyes again. Something had shifted. He wasn't sure if it was strength or something breaking inside him, but it felt cold. Heavy. Final.
He didn't touch the dirty dishes. Didn't eat.
He just turned around, walked back up the stairs, and got ready for school like nothing was wrong.