The first thing Hiro became aware of was the smell—antiseptic, clean linen, and the faint, underlying scent of sorrow that seems to linger in all hospitals. Then came the light, soft and diffuse, filtering through a half-closed blind and painting the room in stripes of pale gold and gray. His body felt distant, a heavy, aching thing he was only tenuously connected to, except for the deep, persistent throb radiating from his right arm.
He tried to move his fingers. A spark of white-hot pain shot from his elbow to his wrist, anchoring him fully into consciousness with a gasp.
"Where…?"
The door swung open before the word had fully left his dry lips. His mother's face, pale and etched with two days of relentless worry, appeared first. Her sharp intake of breath was a sound of pure, unadulterated relief.
"Hiro!"
She was at his bedside in an instant, her cool hands framing his face, her tears falling warm on his skin. Behind her, his father stood in the doorway, his usual stoic composure fractured by the deep lines of fear around his eyes. He moved into the room, a steady, grounding presence at the foot of the bed.
"How do you feel, son?"
Hiro tried to push himself up with his left arm, wincing as the movement jostled his right. "Like I got hit by a truck." The memory was a shattered mosaic—flashing lights, the screech of tires, Luna's scream cutting through the night air. His heart lurched violently. "Luna! Is she—?!"
"She's fine," his father said, his voice firm, intentional. "She's been here. They all have. Waiting."
The tension bled from Hiro's shoulders, leaving only the heavy weariness. His mother was already pulling out her phone, her thumbs flying over the screen.
To Kaede: He's awake!
The responses came in a cascade of vibrating chimes she didn't bother to silence.
Kaede: OMG! WE'RE COMING NOW!
Yuki: ON OUR WAY!
Luna: REALLY?! I'M COMING!
"They'll be here soon," his mother said, smiling through her tears. But Hiro's gaze had drifted downward, to the bulk of bandages and the rigid shell of the cast encasing his right arm. A cold, formless dread began to curl in his gut.
Twenty minutes later, the quiet of the hospital hallway was shattered by the sound of running footsteps. Kaede led the charge, her school bag still slung over her shoulder. Yuki and Takeshi were right behind, their expressions a mirror of anxious hope. Lolo, ever the calm center, was a step behind them, her hand clasped tightly around Luna's.
Luna's ears were pressed flat against her head, her tail held stiff and low. The vibrant, confident girl Hiro knew was gone, replaced by one pale with fear and sleepless nights. She stopped just outside Room 3-B, her breath catching.
"Is he… is he really okay?" she whispered, her voice so small it was almost lost in the hum of the hospital.
Lolo squeezed her hand. "Let's find out together."
They pushed the door open.
Hiro was propped up on pillows, looking fragile in the sterile white bed. The sight of him awake, alive, broke the dam. With identical cries, Luna and Lolo surged forward, careful of the wires and rails but unable to stop themselves from gently throwing their arms around him.
"You idiot!" Luna sobbed, her face buried in the hospital gown over his shoulder. Her tears were hot and immediate. "You scared us half to death!"
"Don't you ever do that again," Lolo choked out, her own composure crumbling as she hugged his left side.
A sharp, involuntary groan escaped Hiro. "Ow… careful…"
They sprang back as if burned. "Sorry! Sorry!" Luna gasped, her hands fluttering nervously. But she was smiling, a watery, radiant smile that made something in Hiro's fractured chest ache.
The rest of the group crowded around, a chorus of relieved sighs and tearful laughter. Kaede ruffled his hair with sisterly affection. "Dramatic as always, cousin."
Takeshi gave a firm, grateful nod. "Glad you're back with us, man."
Yuki just kept wiping her eyes, repeating, "We were so scared."
Hiro smiled back at them, he nodded, he made the right noises. But behind his eyes, a silent movie was playing on a loop—a memory from earlier that morning, before they arrived, when the doctor had sat in the chair beside his bed, his expression grave.
FLASHBACK
"Hiro," the doctor, a man with kind eyes and a weary demeanor, had begun, "we need to talk about your right arm."
Hiro had glanced at the cast. "It's broken. How long?"
"The fractures from the impact were severe. Multiple, complex breaks. We've stabilized them." The doctor leaned forward, his voice dropping into a gentle, terrible register. "But the trauma caused significant nerve damage. The force… it crushed more than bone."
A cold void had opened up inside Hiro. "Nerves?"
"We've done what we can surgically, but regeneration is unpredictable. Even with aggressive physical therapy…" The doctor paused, allowing the weight of the unsaid to fill the room. "Full functional recovery is unlikely. You may never regain complete mobility or strength. Fine motor skills, like writing or gripping… they will be a considerable challenge."
The words washed over him, meaningless at first. Then they coalesced into images: holding a pencil, throwing a punch, catching Luna if she stumbled, the simple act of lifting a glass of water.
"I understand," Hiro had heard himself say, his voice coming from a faraway place.
But he didn't. Not at all.
PRESENT
The friends stayed for an hour, filling the room with chatter and plans for his recovery. Hiro participated with a hollow enthusiasm. He watched his right hand, resting inert on the blanket. He saw the moment Luna noticed it, too. Her eyes flicked from his face to his arm, a new worry dimming her relieved smile. He looked away before she could ask.
The next day, he was discharged. The welcome-home meal his mother prepared—his favorite katsudon—sat largely untouched on his plate. The chopsticks felt alien and clumsy in his left hand. The pork cutlet, once easy to manage, became a frustrating, slippery adversary. After five minutes of silent struggle, he set the chopsticks down with a quiet click.
"I'm going to my room."
Alone, in the sanctuary of his bedroom, the facade crumbled. He stood before his mirror, staring at the stranger with the sling. With grim determination, he slid his arm out of the cloth cradle. He willed his fingers to curl.
A faint, trembling twitch in his index finger. A bolt of searing, electric pain up his forearm. Nothing more.
"Come on," he growled at his reflection, his breath fogging the glass. "Move!"
He strained, teeth gritted, sweat beading on his forehead. The finger twitched again, pitifully. The rest of the hand lay dead, a foreign appendage. A hot, helpless rage flooded him. His left fist, still whole, still strong, shot out and connected with the wall beside the mirror.
CRACK.
Plaster dust drifted to the floor. Pain, clean and sharp, bloomed across his knuckles. He welcomed it. It was a pain he understood, a pain he had chosen. He sank to the edge of his bed, cradling his injured left hand with his useless right, and didn't cry. The numbness was worse.
At school the next day, the well-wishes felt like a form of torture. Everyone knew about the accident; everyone had a comment. "You're so lucky!" "It could have been worse!" "You'll be back to normal in no time!"
Each word was a needle. Normal. He smiled tightly and kept walking.
On the rooftop at lunch, the divide was palpable. He sat slightly apart, the autumn wind chilling him through his jacket. The group's chatter washed over him—plans for the upcoming festival, a test in Mr. Sato's class, a funny video Lolo had seen. He felt separated from them by a thick pane of glass.
"Hiro?" Kaede's voice cut through his detachment. "You okay?"
"Fine."
The word was flat, final. A silence descended, awkward and heavy.
Takeshi tried. "Man, if you want to talk about—"
"No."
The refusal was a guillotine. Luna watched him, her food forgotten. She saw the shadow in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched tight enough to grind stone. She slid closer, her movements careful, non-threatening.
"Hiro," she said softly, so only he could hear. "Please. What's wrong? This isn't you."
He stared straight ahead at the distant city skyline. "Nothing's wrong."
"You can talk to me. Whatever it is, we can face it togeth—"
"I said I'm FINE." The veneer of control cracked, his voice sharpening to an edge.
She didn't flinch. Her hand hovered, wanting to touch his shoulder but thinking better of it. "I know you're not. Just tell me what's happening. Let me in."
He stood abruptly, the movement stiff. "Drop it, Luna."
She stood too now, facing him, her tail lashing once in distress. "No! You're clearly hurting and I want to help!"
"You can't help!" The words erupted, louder, drawing the attention of the entire group.
"Then at least let me try!" Tears of frustration were glimmering in her own eyes now. "I care about you! Why won't you let me?!"
He turned on her then, and the raw, unvarnished agony in his face was terrifying. It twisted quickly into something darker, angrier—a weapon to push her away. "Why?! Why do you care so much?!"
"Because I—!" She stopped, the unspoken words hanging between them, profound and fragile. "Because you're important to me! Because that's what you do for people you—!"
"WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SHUT UP?!"
The roar echoed off the rooftop water tanks. The world froze.
Hiro's chest heaved. The words, the terrible, venomous words, were out now, slithering into the space between them. He saw the exact moment they struck home. "You're not my girlfriend! You're just a BEAST FOLK! So just LEAVE ME ALONE!"
Silence. A deep, absolute, vacuum of sound.
Luna's face went utterly blank with shock. Then, as if connected to a puppeteer's strings, her ears—usually so expressive, so full of life—pinned themselves completely flat against her skull. Her vibrant tail dropped, limp and heavy, to brush the concrete. The light in her golden eyes shattered.
"Hiro…?" His name was a breath, a broken thing. "You… you don't mean that…"
He couldn't hold her gaze. He looked at his feet, at the cast, anywhere but at the devastation he had wrought. It was the final confirmation she needed.
With a sound that was half-whimper, half-sob, she turned and fled, the rooftop door swinging shut behind her with a damning final thud.
The spell broke. Takeshi was on his feet, his friendly demeanor replaced by cold disgust. "Not cool, bro. Not cool at all."
Yuki's tears were now of fury. "That was vile, Hiro! How could you?!"
Kaede looked at him as if she didn't know him. "What is wrong with you?"
Lolo's voice was the quietest, and somehow the worst. It was filled with a deep, weary disappointment. "To hurt someone who loves you that much… I never thought you were that cruel."
The guilt was a physical weight, crushing his lungs, anchoring him to the spot. He opened his mouth to call after Luna, to unsay the unsayable, but no sound came out. The truth of his arm, his future, his brokenness, rose up in his throat and choked him. Explanation was impossible. All he had was the wreckage.
Without a word, he walked past them, through the same door Luna had used, leaving his friends and the best part of his life behind on the sun-drenched rooftop.
He moved through the after-school halls like a ghost. Kaede caught up to him at the school gates, grabbing his left arm.
"Hiro! Talk to me! What is going on with you?!"
He shook her off gently, his expression a mask of impassive stone. He had nothing to give her, nothing but the hollow echo of his own heartbeat. He walked away, leaving her standing there, hurt and confused.
In Luna's room, the world had dissolved into a grey blur. She lay face-down on her bed, her body wracked with silent, shuddering sobs. A gentle knock sounded at the door.
"Luna? Sweetheart?"
Her mother, Yuki Shirohane, entered. She took one look at her daughter's form, the trembling of her fluffy tail, and her heart broke. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed a gentle hand between Luna's ears.
"What happened, my little wolf?"
The story tumbled out between hiccupping cries. "…and he just yelled… said I was just a beast folk… told me to leave him alone…" She rolled over, her face blotchy and tear-streaked, her eyes searching her mother's. "Did I do something wrong? Was I too pushy? Too much?"
"Oh, my darling girl. No." Her mother gathered her into a fierce, warm embrace. "You did nothing wrong. Your heart was in the right place."
"Then why?" Luna cried into her mother's shoulder.
Mrs. Shirohane stroked her hair, her voice a soft, steady murmur. "Sometimes, when people are in incredible pain—a pain they think they must bear alone—they build walls. And the people closest to them, the ones who try to scale those walls out of love, are the ones who get hurt. They lash out because, in their twisted logic, pushing you away is a way to protect you from their own storm."
"It hurts," Luna whispered.
"I know it does. And what he said was unforgivable. There is no excuse for that cruelty." She pulled back, cupping Luna's face. "But hurt people… hurt people. Hiro is carrying a weight he doesn't know how to share. He needs time. Time to cool off, time to face whatever demon he's wrestling with."
"How much time?"
"As much as he needs," her mother said honestly. "And when he's ready… if you are ready… you can choose whether or not to be there. But Luna, listen to me: your feelings are not less important than his pain. Kindness does not mean being a doormat. It means understanding his storm, while making sure you don't drown in it yourself."
Luna nodded, the words settling in her sore heart. The acute, tearing agony was slowly being replaced by a deep, aching sorrow—for Hiro, for herself, for what had been broken between them. "I still care about him," she confessed, the truth of it a bittersweet ache. "Even now."
Her mother smiled, a sad, proud smile. "That is your strength. But let it be a strength that also protects you."
Night fell, deep and quiet, over Hiro's neighborhood. In his room, the glow of his phone illuminated his face. Screen after screen showed missed calls and unread messages—from Kaede, Yuki, Takeshi, Lolo. One, sent an hour ago, from Luna. He hadn't opened any of them.
His gaze fell on the framed photo on his desk: a snapshot from a summer day at the beach. He was mid-laugh, pretending to be annoyed as Luna, her fur sparkling with saltwater, hugged him from behind, her smile brighter than the sun. He picked it up with his left hand, his thumb stroking the glass over her joyful face.
A tear, hot and shameful, escaped and traced a path down his cheek. It landed with a soft tap on the cast that encased his right arm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room, to the girl in the picture, to the person he used to be. "I'm so sorry, Luna."
He placed the photo face down.
Lying back in the darkness, he stared at the ceiling where the headlights of passing cars painted slow, sweeping arcs. The doctor's words, which he had kept locked away, now echoed in the hollow chamber of his mind.
You may never regain full use.
Broken.
How could he protect anyone? How could he stand beside her? How could he offer anything at all when the most fundamental tool—his own body—had betrayed him? He was no longer the whole person she deserved. He was fractured. Diminished.
A quiet, definitive truth settled over him in the dark, as cold and unyielding as the plaster on his arm: some things, once broken, cannot be put back together.