Shy Girl

Chapter 5❤️

The transition from late autumn to early winter brought a biting chill to the air, one that seemed to seep into the very marrow of Miyu’s bones. At school, the atmosphere was festive, but at the Nakamura household, the cold was a weapon. Mrs. Tamaki had decided that "to save on utility costs," the heater in Miyu’s small room would remain off. Miyu spent her nights shivering under a single thin blanket, her breath blooming in white puffs of mist as she tried to study by the light of a dim lamp.

By Tuesday morning, the neglect had taken its toll. Miyu woke up with a throat that felt like it had been scraped with glass and a head that throbbed in time with her racing heart. Her skin was unnaturally pale, save for two high, feverish spots of crimson on her cheeks.

"Get up, you lazy girl!" Mrs. Tamaki’s voice pierced through the haze of Miyu’s headache. "I won't have you malingering in bed while there are breakfast dishes to be done. If you can walk, you can work."

Miyu dragged herself out of bed, her legs feeling like lead. She managed to finish the chores through sheer force of will, but by the time she reached the school gates, her vision was beginning to swim. She adjusted her brown school uniform, pulling her cardigan tight, trying to hide the fact that she was trembling.

She tried to avoid Haruki and Hina that morning, fearing that one look at her would give her away. She sat in the back of the classroom, her head resting on her desk. Every time the teacher spoke, the sound felt like a hammer against her skull.

During the break, she slipped away to the rooftop, seeking the cold air to wake her up. But as she leaned against the fence, the world suddenly tilted. The grey sky and the brown school buildings swapped places.

"Miyu!"

Just as her knees began to buckle, Haruki was there. He didn't just catch her; he moved with the precision of the athlete he was. Seeing how faint she was, he immediately turned his back to her and crouched down. "Miyu, get on. Now," he commanded softly but firmly.

"I... I can walk, Haruki-kun," she whispered, her voice cracking.

"No, you can't. Your hands are ice cold and your face is burning." He reached back, guiding her arms over his shoulders. With a practiced ease, he hoisted her up into a piggyback, her small frame resting against his broad back. He could feel the heat radiating through her brown blazer.

Haruki marched down the stairs, his grip on her legs secure and steady. He didn't care about the gasps from students in the hallway or the way Rina watched them with a look of pure hatred. To him, the only thing that mattered was the steady, shallow rhythm of Miyu’s breath against the back of his neck.

In the quiet of the infirmary, the nurse frowned. "She’s exhausted and malnourished, Haruki-kun. This isn't just a cold. She needs rest and proper care."

Haruki sat by her bed for three hours, skipping his star-athlete practice. He held her hand, his thumb tracing the knuckles he had watched play the piano so beautifully. When Hina arrived, her usual eccentric energy was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective anger.

"I'm calling my dad," Hina whispered, looking at Miyu’s sleeping form. "We can't let her go back there tonight, Haruki. If she goes back to that house in this state, she might not wake up tomorrow."

Haruki looked at Miyu—the girl who was his melody. "She’s staying with me," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "My father is out of town. I’ll take care of her."

The journey to Haruki’s house was a testament to his endurance. Even though the nurse suggested a taxi, Haruki insisted on carrying her the final stretch from the station himself. He crouched low, letting her slide onto his back once more. He walked slowly, carefully, ensuring that every step was smooth so as not to jostle her aching head.

"Haruki-kun... I'm heavy... please put me down," Miyu mumbled into his shoulder, her fever making her voice trail off.

"You're as light as a feather, Miyu. That’s the problem," he muttered back, his heart aching at how small she felt. He adjusted his grip, pulling her closer to his warmth. "Just sleep. I've got you."

When she finally became lucid hours later, she found herself lying in a large, soft bed that smelled like the forest. The room was dim, lit only by a small bedside lamp. She turned her head and saw Haruki sitting in a chair nearby, a bowl of water and a cloth in his lap. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his brown blazer tossed over the foot of the bed.

"Where... where am I?" she croaked.

"My house," Haruki said, leaning forward instantly. He wrung out a cool cloth and placed it gently on her forehead. "Hina stayed for a while to help change you into some of my old loungewear, but she had to go home. You’ve been asleep for six hours."

Miyu looked down at the oversized t-shirt she was wearing. It smelled like him. A deep blush that had nothing to do with her fever crept up her neck. "I shouldn't be here. My stepmother... she’ll be so angry."

"Let her be," Haruki said, his voice stern but gentle. He reached out and patted her hand. "I called your father. I told him you fainted at school and that the doctor said you shouldn't be moved. He actually sounded worried, Miyu. I think he wants to protect you, but he’s afraid of her."

Miyu looked away, her eyes filling with tears. "Everyone is afraid of her. That’s just how it is."

"Not me," Haruki whispered. " Don't worry about it,"

Miyu reached out, her small, pale hand covering his. "Haruki-kun..."

As the sun began to peek through the curtains the next morning, the reality of the world returned. A loud, aggressive knocking echoed from the front door downstairs.

"Miyu Nakamura! I know you're in there!"

It was Mrs. Tamaki. She had found them.

Haruki stood up, his face hardening into a mask of cold determination. He patted Miyu’s head one last time, a gesture of pure protection. "Stay here. Don't come out until I tell you."

"Haruki, please be careful," Miyu whispered, her eyes wide with fear.

He gave her that cute, lopsided smile—the one that promised everything would be okay. "I’m an athlete, remember? I can carry more than you think."

As he walked out the door, Miyu gripped her sheets tightly.

The atmosphere in the foyer of the Saito residence was suffocating, a volatile mixture of Haruki’s protective fury and Mrs. Tamaki’s shrill, performative outrage. Miyu stood at the top of the stairs, her small hands gripping the mahogany railing so hard her knuckles turned white. Her fever had subsided into a dull, throbbing ache, but the cold dread pooling in her stomach was far worse than any physical illness.

The front door, which had been vibrating under Mrs. Tamaki's assault, was suddenly pushed open further. A shadow fell across the entryway, taller than Haruki’s but not imposing in a way that felt threatening. It was **Kenji**.

At twenty years old, Kenji carried the quiet, weary air of someone who had spent far too long acting as a shield. He was two years older than Miyu, a remnant of their mother’s first marriage before she had met Miyu’s father. He stood slightly taller than Haruki, with a leaner build and eyes that mirrored Miyu’s own—soft, brown, and perpetually tired.

"That’s enough, Mother," Kenji said, his voice calm but layered with a finality that momentarily silenced Mrs. Tamaki’s screeching.

"Kenji! Thank goodness you’re here to talk sense into this... this kidnapper!" Mrs. Tamaki hissed, pointing a manicured finger at Haruki.

Haruki didn't flinch. He stepped forward, placing himself between the door and the stairs. "She isn't a kidnapper's victim. She’s a sick girl who was left in a freezing room without food. If you want her back, you’ll have to go through me."

Kenji looked at Haruki, his gaze sweeping over the athlete's defensive stance, the rumpled school uniform, and the genuine, raw concern etched into his face. For a moment, a flicker of relief—and perhaps a hint of envy—passed through Kenji’s eyes. He looked up the stairs and locked eyes with Miyu.

"Miyu," he called out softly. "Come down. We’re going home."

Miyu descended the stairs slowly, her legs trembling. Haruki reached out as she passed, his hand hovering near her elbow, wanting to catch her if she stumbled. When she reached the bottom, Kenji stepped toward her, checking the heat on her forehead with a gentle, calloused hand.

"I'm glad you're safe," Kenji whispered, his voice for her ears alone. He looked at Haruki and gave a stiff, respectful nod. "Thank you for looking after her, Saito-kun. I know what you’re trying to do. I really do. But it’s better if she comes with me now."

"She can't go back there!" Haruki protested, his voice rising. He reached out and grabbed Miyu’s wrist—not to hurt her, but as if he could tether her to the safety of his home. "Kenji-san, you know what she does to her. You saw her this morning. If she goes back, nothing changes."

"I'll be there tonight," Kenji promised, though his voice sounded hollow even to himself. "I won't leave her side."

Miyu looked between the two young men—one who represented the only warmth she had ever known in that house, and the other who represented a future she was too terrified to believe in. She pulled her wrist gently out of Haruki’s grip.

"It’s okay, Haruki-kun," she said, her voice small and brittle. "I have to go back. It... it isn't as bad as it looks. My mother was just stressed because of the holidays. She didn't mean to leave the heater off. She just forgot. She has so much on her mind with the house and the bills..."

"Forgot?" Haruki stepped closer, his eyes flashing with disbelief. "Miyu, she stood in my doorway and called you a 'male ringer' while you were shaking with a 102-degree fever. That isn't stress. That’s cruel."

"She’s just strict," Miyu insisted, her voice rising in a desperate attempt to convince herself. Her eyes darted toward Mrs. Tamaki, who was watching them with a smug, serpentine smile. "She wants me to be disciplined. If I were better at my chores, if I didn't spend so much time at the piano, she wouldn't have to be so hard on me. It’s my fault for being a burden."

Kenji winced, the words clearly hitting a nerve. "Miyu, stop. You know that’s not true. No one deserves to be treated like a ghost in their own home."

"You both just don't understand!" Miyu cried, her voice cracking as she finally broke. "If I fight her, it gets worse! If I listen to you and stay here, what happens to Father? What happens to the peace? I just want things to be quiet. I just want to survive until the festival."

Haruki reached out, his hand resting on her shoulder. He squeezed gently, a grounding pressure. "Survival shouldn't be your only goal, Miyu. You deserve to live."

But Miyu wasn't listening. She was already moving toward the door, her head bowed, her shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. She was terrified. She knew that every word Haruki said in her defense would be a debt she would have to pay once the front door of the Nakamura house clicked shut. She could feel Mrs. Tamaki’s gaze on the back of her neck is like a predator marking its prey.

"Let's go, Kenji," Miyu whispered, grabbing her brother's sleeve.

Haruki stepped forward as if to block them, his chest heaving. "Miyu, wait—"

"Saito-kun," Kenji interrupted, stepping in front of his sister. He looked Haruki in the eye, a silent communication passing between them. *Not today. You'll make it harder for her today.* "Let us go. I’ll make sure she eats. I’ll make sure she’s warm."

Haruki stood frozen in the entryway of his beautiful, lonely home as the three of them walked away. He watched as Kenji helped Miyu into the car, and his heart felt like it was being physically wrenched from his chest. He had carried her on his back through the cold; he had felt her heart beating against his spine. He couldn't understand how she could walk back into the cage so willingly.

Inside the car, the silence was jagged. Mrs. Tamaki sat in the front, staring straight ahead, her silence more menacing than her screams. In the back seat, Miyu huddled against the door, staring out the window at the blurred trees.

Kenji reached over and squeezed her hand, but she didn't respond. She was already mentally preparing herself for the "talk" that would happen the moment they were alone. She was thinking about the piano, about the blue silk dress Hina was sewing, and how easily a person could lose everything they loved if they reached for it too greedily.

*I'm sorry, Haruki-kun,* she thought, a single tear tracing a path through the dried salt on her cheek. *I'm too afraid to be the girl you think I am.*

As the car pulled into the driveway of the dark, silent Nakamura house, Miyu felt the walls closing in. The "sanctuary of shadows" was gone, replaced by the cold reality of a girl who was still, and perhaps always would be, terrified of the light.