It started with an accident.
I wasn't looking for anything.I wasn't trying to pry.I just wanted to find the old sketchbook she used to carry — the one filled with messy doodles she always swore she hated but never threw away.
The drawer was jammed.I pulled harder.And then — a small, beaten-up notebook slipped out and fell to the floor.
I stared at it for a long time.
It wasn't labeled.No fancy locks.No warnings scribbled in the margins.
Just a plain, worn book.
I shouldn't have opened it.I know that now.But back then… curiosity was a monster I didn't know how to fight.
The first few pages were harmless.Old grocery lists.Random scribbles.Bad poetry about how much she hated rainy days.
I almost laughed.
But then I flipped to a page halfway through —And everything stopped.
"I hate that I had to pretend.""I hate that I had to be the bad guy.""But more than anything... I hate that he doesn't know I was proud of him.""Yuki didn't destroy us. He saved us.""He set us free.""He set me free."
My hands started to shake.
The words blurred together, but I kept reading — desperate, frantic — as if the truth could patch up the hollow space inside me that had been rotting for years.
Every memory.Every cold look.Every time she turned away when I needed her most —It wasn't because she hated me.
It was because she loved me too much to let me believe I wasn't wrong.
It was because she loved me enough to become my enemy.
I didn't realize I was crying until a drop of water splashed against the page.
"Yuki?"
I froze.
Shinobu stood in the doorway, her hand still on the knob, her eyes wide.
For a moment, neither of us moved.Neither of us breathed.
The notebook trembled in my grasp.I couldn't find the words.I didn't know how to ask why.I didn't know how to say I was sorry — sorry for doubting her, sorry for thinking she hated me, sorry for not seeing how much she was hurting too.
But then her face crumpled.
And for the first time in years — she crossed the room and hugged me.
Not careful.Not distant.Not pretending.
Just raw, broken, desperate — like she was holding onto something she thought she had already lost.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, over and over into my hair."I'm so sorry, Yuki..."
And all I could do was clutch her tighter and sob into her shoulder —because for the first time in forever, I finally understood.
I wasn't alone.
I never had been.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Just holding onto each other, both of us too scared to be the first to let go —as if letting go would mean everything would go back to the way it was before.Silent. Cold. Wrong.
But eventually, Shinobu pulled back just a little.Her eyes were red, her face blotchy in a way I'd never seen before.
She looked… human.Not perfect.Not invincible.Just my sister.
"You read it," she said, voice trembling.
I nodded, unable to meet her gaze.
"I'm sorry," I rasped. "I didn't mean to. I was just—""No," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You needed to."
There was a long, aching silence.The kind that makes you feel like your own heartbeat is too loud.
Then she spoke again, softer.
"I should have told you," she said. "A long time ago. But... I was scared."
"Scared?" I whispered. "Of me?"
Her mouth twisted painfully."No. Of myself."
I stared at her.Waiting.Dreading.Needing.
"When you killed them..." she began, voice barely a breath, "I wasn't sad."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.I stiffened — every muscle screaming to run, to hide, to disappear.
But her hands tightened around mine, forcing me to stay.
"I was relieved," she said. "Relieved that it was over. That you... that we... were finally free."
Tears blurred my vision."Then why—" My voice cracked. "Why did you treat me like a monster?"
Shinobu's face crumpled again, like the weight of the truth was too heavy to carry.
"Because you had to believe it was wrong," she whispered. "Because if you thought it was okay — if you thought it was good — I was scared you'd lose yourself. That you'd never come back."
I shook my head, the pain splitting me open."You let me suffer," I said hoarsely. "You let me hate myself for years."
"I know," she sobbed. "I know. And if I could go back, I would do it differently. I swear, Yuki. But back then... I thought I was protecting you the only way I knew how."
Her words broke something in me.Something hard and rusted and angry that had been festering for so long, I didn't even realize it was there.
I collapsed against her, burying my face in her shoulder.
"I hated you," I whispered, voice shattering. "I hated you so much.""I hated myself too," she whispered back. "Every single day."
We stayed like that —two broken people, clinging to each other,trying to stitch the torn pieces of ourselves back together with nothing but apologies and the raw, bleeding truth.
And somewhere, somehow, between the tears and the confessions —
We found forgiveness.
Not perfect.Not complete.
But enough.
Enough to start over.
Enough to finally be brother and sister again.
Later, we ended up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor.The sky outside had lightened to a pale blue, the kind that felt more like a promise than just the start of another day.
Between us, a dusty old photo album lay open — its leather cover cracked with age, its pages yellowed and curling at the edges.
I didn't even remember pulling it out.Maybe Shinobu did.Maybe it didn't matter.
We flipped through it slowly, neither of us saying much.Our fingers brushed sometimes, lingering without fear.
There were photos of us when we were little — tiny versions of ourselves, grinning wide and unburdened by everything that would come later.
A picture of Shinobu holding me as a newborn, her arms awkward but determined.A picture of us, side by side at some festival, faces smeared with chocolate and happiness.
I let out a soft, broken laugh.
"You used to hate getting dirty," I murmured, tapping the photo of her glaring at her own sticky hands.
Shinobu smiled — a real one this time, tired but honest.
"I still do," she said. "You were the messy one."
"I still am," I admitted, and the smallest, softest laugh escaped both of us.
It wasn't perfect.It wasn't enough to erase everything.
But it was something.Something real.
I turned another page and paused.
There was a photo of the two of us, curled up together on the same couch we sat beside now — years ago, when I was small enough to fit into the crook of her side without it feeling strange.She was reading a book aloud, and I was listening with my whole tiny heart.
For a moment, the silence stretched — not heavy, not painful.Just... full.
Full of everything we'd lost.Everything we might find again.
"I missed you," I said quietly, surprising myself with how much it hurt to say it out loud. "Even when you were right there... I missed you."
Shinobu's hand found mine.
"I missed you too," she whispered. "Every single day."
We sat there like that — two broken kids in a world too big for them — clinging to old memories like lifelines.Making new ones without even realizing it.
No more pretending.No more masks.
Just us.Raw. Imperfect. Trying.
And for the first time in forever —
That felt like enough.
The next natural thing was breakfast.Or, at least, something vaguely resembling it.
We stumbled into the kitchen, still a little raw, a little fragile, but lighter somehow.Like the gravity in the room had shifted.
"I'll cook," Shinobu announced, rolling up the sleeves of her hoodie with a determined air."You can barely make toast," I teased, grabbing a pan from the cupboard.
She shot me a look — mock-offended, but her mouth twitched with a suppressed smile."Correction. I can burn toast perfectly."
I snorted, feeling the strange, new warmth growing in my chest.A warmth I hadn't let myself feel in years.
It was clumsy from the start.Shinobu dropped eggshells into the pan.I forgot to turn on the stove.The milk boiled over while we argued about whether pancakes needed baking powder.
At some point, a spoonful of batter splattered onto Shinobu's cheek, and she froze — eyes wide in mock horror.
Slowly, dramatically, she dipped her finger into the spilled batter and flicked it at me.
It hit my shirt with a wet slap.
"You started it," she said, deadpan.
I stared at her, stunned.And then — for the first time in what felt like forever — I laughed.
Not a bitter laugh.Not a broken one.A real one.
Shinobu started laughing too, wiping her face with her sleeve and making it worse.We laughed so hard we couldn't even stand properly, clutching the counters for support as tears blurred our vision.
The pancakes burned.The eggs stuck to the pan.The whole kitchen smelled vaguely like something was dying.
But it didn't matter.God, it didn't matter.
Because for the first time in years —It felt like home.
Messy.Chaotic.Loud.
Alive.
We ended up sitting on the kitchen floor with half-burned pancakes on paper plates, still laughing between bites, shoulders bumping together like kids sneaking a midnight snack.
And somewhere between the burnt breakfast and the crooked smiles —I realized something.
We weren't fixing the past.We weren't erasing the pain.
We were doing something better.
We were living.
Together.
The kitchen fell into a gentle quiet after a while.
The kind that wasn't heavy or awkward —just... peaceful.Like the storm had passed, and all that was left was the sound of soft breathing and the faint crackle of a dying stove flame.
We sat side by side on the floor, legs stretched out, our plates abandoned.The sky outside the tiny kitchen window was beginning to change —darkness bleeding into soft shades of blue and gold.
Shinobu noticed it first.She nudged me with her elbow, nodding toward the window.
"Look," she whispered.
I did.And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The sunrise was quiet — no grand announcement, no bursting fireworks.Just the slow, tender arrival of light, spilling over the rooftops, painting everything in delicate hues of pink and amber.
A new day.
A new beginning.
I leaned my head back against the wall, my body finally sinking into something that wasn't fear or guilt or anger —just a tired, healing kind of peace.
Shinobu hugged her knees to her chest, watching the sun climb higher with a small, almost wistful smile.
"You know," she murmured, voice barely louder than the wind outside,"it's not going to be perfect. We're going to mess up. Say the wrong things. Fight again."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat."I know."
"But..." she said, reaching out, pinky finger brushing mine — a tentative, hopeful touch —"we're here. That's something, right?"
I looked at her.Really looked.
At the girl who had once been my enemy.My protector.My sister.
And I smiled.
"Yeah," I said, linking my pinky with hers."It's everything."
The sunrise spilled across the floor like a promise, warming our tangled legs and tired hearts.
And for the first time in a long, long time —
I believed in tomorrow.
With her.With us.
Whatever came next —
We would face it together.