Suguru stays seated in the driver’s seat for a while after turning the engine off, one hand resting against the steering wheel as exhaustion settles heavily into his shoulders. The medication bag sits untouched in the passenger seat beside him.
This moment—before entering the house—has quietly become routine.
Because for a few seconds longer, he can still pretend things are normal.
That you will greet him at the door like she used to. Smile at him. Complain about work. Steal his coat before he can even take his shoes off properly.
Instead—
the house has become quieter with every passing month.
Sterile.
Filled with medication schedules, doctor appointments, half-finished meals, and lingering fear.
His fingers tighten briefly around the steering wheel before he forces himself to exhale slowly, pushing the exhaustion back down where it belongs.
Then he finally steps inside.
Dear, he calls softly while setting the pharmacy bags onto the kitchen counter.
His practiced smile is already in place by the time he looks up.
I’m home.
A brief pause follows.
…Feeling okay today?
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