VOLUME III: 43 – The Things Left Unsaid

I stood outside the glass door for a solid ten seconds, peering through the gold lettering at the table that held three generations of our family and one feral disappointment in a Walmart dress.

Through the glass, I saw Akane first. Her posture so crisp it could slice bread, hair so perfect a shampoo company probably approached her out of fear she'd sue them for false advertising. Then my parents, heads bent close over a lacquered menu, wearing that carefully relaxed look people put on when they were trying too hard to seem normal in public. And Grandpa who looks stoic in his dark suit, the only man alive who could look both gentle and terrifying while sipping overpriced miso soup.

My reflection in the door was pale, hair too bright under the entryway light, lipstick bitten nearly off.

Perfect.

I squared my shoulders. I smiled at no one. I pulled the door open.

Inside, every eye found me in three seconds flat. I swore I heard Akane’s molars crack from how tight she clenched her polite grin. I bowed, a fraction too deep. Overcompensating. Classic.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Mother’s eyes flicked to my hair immediately. Her voice stayed smooth, but her fingers tightened around her napkin. “Sit, Aoi. We were just ordering.”

Dad gave me a quick nod, as if that counted for affection. Grandpa was the only one who truly looked at me as he gestured to the empty seat beside him, the same spot I’d claimed since I could hold chopsticks.

“You’re here. That’s enough,” he rumbled, like he’d told fate itself to hush and pour the sake.

I should have known the chopsticks would turn into daggers eventually.

Dinner was quiet at first, the kind of polite quiet that tasted like green tea gone cold. Grandpa hummed now and then as he picked at the sashimi. Akane fielded all the adult talk like a CEO in a pencil skirt. Dad asked one or two predictable questions about my freelance projects which was family code, for We still have no idea what you do, but we’ll pretend it’s respectable.

And then Aunt Yuki — who’d spent half the meal complimenting the fish she hadn’t paid for — decided to do it.

“Ah, Aoi-chan,” she said brightly, with that sugary pitch reserved for airing family shame. “How’s your… new life these days? It must feel so free now that… well, you know…”

The word divorce went unspoken, but it sat there louder than any blessing. Akane went so still I thought she’d snap her chopsticks in half.

I set my cup down carefully, like it might save me. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Dad’s voice slid over mine like a knife. “Fine? You turned down New York for fine?”

Someone coughed. Mother’s hand twitched near her napkin. Grandpa paused mid-bite, eyes sharp despite his years.

I laughed. It came out thin and crooked. “Not everyone wants to stand in front of a camera raving about the weather, Dad.”

He didn’t flinch. “You wanted that journalism job. You begged me for that internship. You fought for it. And then you threw it away.”

A thousand answers itched behind my teeth. Jokes. Deflections. The safe lie I fed strangers: Oh, I’m freelancing. It’s more flexible, haha.

But my voice betrayed me. Maybe my chest did too. Something cracked, small but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I couldn’t leave him.”

The table fell silent. Only the faint hum of the restaurant’s AC and the muffled chatter of other families drifted in, mocking how ordinary shame could sound.

Dad stared. Not furious, not disappointed. Just waiting for me to admit it all. To say I had failed him, failed myself, failed the neat plan that would have made me worth quoting at a family reunion.

“Well. Look how that ended,” he said.

My laugh broke on the way out. “Damn, Dad. For the first time in my life, this is you actually caring?”

Akane’s chopsticks twitched. Mother’s lips parted— scandal or reprimand, I couldn’t tell.

Father slammed his palm on the table so sharply the ceramics rattled. “Watch your mouth, Aoi. Don’t twist my words to excuse your failures. You think you’re the only one humiliated by this? I—”

“Walter.” Grandpa’s voice sliced the air like a quiet whip. He didn’t raise it; he never had to. He just leaned forward, eyes sharp enough to cleave three generations of pride in half. “Enough. This is a birthday party, not a trial.”

Father glared, jaw tight, but under Grandpa’s stare, he looked away first. That should have felt like winning. It didn’t.

My fingers went numb around my plate. The air tasted stale and sour. My eyes burned. I hated it. I hated them seeing it.

I didn’t remember how the rest of the fish tasted. I didn’t remember who poured me more tea, or if I even drank it. I only remembered my father’s eyes refusing to meet mine again. My mother pretending the stain on the tablecloth deserved more attention than my existence. Akane’s thumb pressing once against my knuckle. A silent apology she’d never say aloud.

Grandpa spoke of the old days then, how he’d come here first with nothing but my mother’s baby shoes in a suitcase too small for pride. He told it for the guests, not for me. But every word felt like a stone hitting my ribs. This is who we were. This is who you were meant to be.

I held my chopsticks the way he taught me when I was five. I chewed, I swallowed, I bowed my head when Uncle Koji laughed about how city girls didn’t even know how to keep a husband these days.

I didn’t correct him. I didn’t say I did know once. I just couldn’t hold it without crushing it. I didn’t say I was tired. I didn't say he deserved someone better than me.

When it was over— when the plates were cleared and Grandpa was helped to the car by two relatives pretending not to see how heavily he leaned on Father’s arm — I found a quiet corner by the restroom hallway, away from the polite goodbyes and the plastic-wrapped gifts no one wanted.

My reflection in the window looked like someone I almost recognized. A little girl in a black funeral dress she’d bought from a retail store. Blonde hair she’d bleached herself to feel something new. Nothing noble left in her spine, only the raw knot of regret she’d hidden so long it tasted like her own tongue.

Behind me, Akane’s heels tapped to a stop. I didn’t turn. I felt her there, standing guard the way she always did.

“You didn’t have to say that,” she murmured, soft, like we were kids again, hiding behind Father’s office door.

“I did.” My voice cracked once. “I wanted to hurt him back.”

“You did.”

I laughed, ugly and dry. “That’s the only thing I’ve done right in years, huh?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t comfort me. She just laid her hand on my back, warm and still against the mess of me.

Outside, someone called her name. A polite reminder she was needed somewhere better than the ghost of a sister she still kept trying to rescue.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, even though we both knew it was half a lie. Maybe that was the point.

She squeezed my shoulder once. Then, her heels clicked away down the hallway.

I stayed.

In the glass, the girl stared back.

I lifted my fingertips to the cold pane, smudged a little line through my own reflection, like it might let her breathe.

Then I let my hand drop.

One step. Then another. Out the door, into the night.

I am still here.





Hey everyone~
Sorry, this one landed on your screens a tiny bit later than planned. It took me a little longer than usual to crack open Aoi’s head and get this chapter to feel just right.

This dinner scene has been echoing in my notes for ages, and it deserved the extra care (and multiple cups of coffee) to make every word sting the way it needed to.

Anyway~ I hope it hits you the way it hit me while writing it. Thank you for being patient with my slow perfectionism.

See you soon for the next chapter!!

~ Edeshei 🧃✨