𝐄𝐙𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

11

"Akira-san, Hawaii de dareka ni aimashita ka?" my father asked, his words cutting through the quiet clinking of dinnerware. His question was light, casual, but there was a certain weight to it, as if he had been holding it back for some time.

The question took me by surprise, and I hesitated, my chopsticks freezing midway to my mouth. It had been two months since I returned from Hawaii, and I had thrown myself into work at our family’s clothing factory to keep my mind from drifting back to the memories I was determined to forget. I didn’t want to remember the warmth of those nights or the bittersweet taste left behind. Not when the wound was still raw.

"Otousan," I finally managed, forcing a steady tone, "why would you ask me something like that?"

I focused on the teriyaki chicken in front of me, hoping to hide whatever emotions might flicker across my face.

He shrugged, though he continued to study me with a knowing look. "You've been... different since you returned. No going out, no late-night gatherings with friends, and definitely no sake. The workers at the factory have even asked me if you were unwell."

"I see you’re enjoying making fun of your daughter," I replied with a small, forced smile, hoping it would throw him off.

He chuckled softly, but the amusement faded as he set his chopsticks down and leaned forward, his gaze turning serious. "Akira-san, you're at the age where you should be considering marriage. You’re beautiful, smart, and have a good head on your shoulders. It’s time you find someone, settle down, maybe give this old man some grandchildren." His tone was light but firm, laced with the sincerity of a father’s hopes. "Or would you prefer I help you with that?"

The idea of marriage was like a stone dropping in my stomach. I carefully put my chopsticks down and looked back at him. "Otousan, I’m still young," I said firmly, but my heart beat faster at the thought of having to face such expectations. "Marriage is not exactly on my mind right now. I have a lot I want to achieve—at the factory, and for myself."

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Young?" He echoed, almost teasing. "Akira-san, I married your mother when she was twenty-five. I was barely older myself. You’re already… what? Almost twenty-six, right?"

The mention of my mother sliced through the air, piercing an old, buried wound. I felt my posture stiffen, my breath catching for a moment. The pain I usually kept well-hidden threatened to spill over. "Please, Father." My voice was harder than I intended, and I could hear the edge of pain in my own words. "We don’t… we don’t speak of her in this house."

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing down on us like a weight neither of us could lift. He looked down, the regret evident in his eyes as he took a deep breath. "Gomenasai, Akira-san," he said softly, his tone tender and filled with a sorrow he rarely showed.

I wanted to reassure him, to tell him he didn’t need to apologize. But the truth was, the mention of my mother, of marriage, and the thought of letting someone in again stirred up too many emotions. Too many memories. A part of me wanted to tell him about Hawaii, about the man I wished I could erase from my mind. But I swallowed those words, leaving them unsaid.

As my father's voice faded, my mind drifted back to the painful memories, ones I had locked away in the deepest corners of my heart, hoping they’d stay buried. But they never truly left, always lurking, ready to resurface when I least expected it.

I remembered the day my mother left. I was just a child, too young to understand fully but old enough to feel the hollow emptiness in the air. I had begged her not to go. I had knelt on the cold floor of our living room, hands clasped together, eyes wide with desperation. I had cried for her to stay, pleading for her love, for our family to stay intact. But all she had done was look at me with disgust, like I was nothing more than an inconvenience. The way her face twisted in disdain was a nightmare I couldn’t forget, no matter how hard I tried.

That memory haunted me, leaving a scar that would never heal. My mother, the woman who should have been my protector, my guide, had abandoned me. And in that moment, I vowed I would never let anyone make me feel that way again.

Three years ago, I thought I had found someone to fill that void, someone who could make me forget the hurt. Kenji. He was everything I wanted, everything I thought I needed. I fell for him deeply, hopelessly. But then he, too, abandoned me. Another woman—someone he chose over me. I begged him to stay, just like I begged my mother. The pain, the humiliation, was unbearable. I was left broken again, shattered by the same abandonment. It felt like history repeating itself, like the universe was mocking me.

After that, I made a promise to myself. No one would ever have the power to hurt me like that again. No one would get close enough to break me again. I would protect myself, no matter what. I built walls, strong and impenetrable, around my heart.

And then two months ago, I almost made the same mistake again.

Ezekiel. His presence had stirred something in me that I thought I had long buried. He was everything I told myself to stay away from. He was dangerous to my heart, a temptation I didn’t need. But for a brief, fleeting moment, I had let myself believe I could let go. I almost let him in, almost allowed myself to trust him.

But then I remembered everything. My mother’s cold, disgusted face. Kenji’s betrayal. The way they had shattered me. And in that moment, I realized I couldn’t—wouldn’t—go through that again.

I had promised myself I would never be a victim again. I couldn’t afford to be weak, to let my guard down. Not for anyone.

But as I sat there, listening to my father talk about marriage, about settling down, I couldn't help but wonder if I was already running from the one thing that could change my life for the better. Would I ever be able to trust again? To love again? Or was I destined to live in fear of being hurt, forever locked in the chains of my own past?