Ladies and Gentlemen, I kid you not, I thought it was "Leiri" for the longest time (😭) until I read another author's work writing it as "Ieri." Then I was like, "Wait a minute . That makes sense, because the letter, 'L,' does not exist in Japanese ." So I slapped myself over the head and corrected it in this chapter. I'm so sorry, Mr. Akutami! 🙏 🙏 🙏

I've been sleeping on the floor lately. There's this fear that I have developed, where I feel like I'm not going to get up again if I sleep in the bed.

I don't know when I fell asleep last night, but I wake up against my bed's end with a quilt draped over me. Inumaki must have brought it in. We had sat in silence on the floor, basking in the other's company, late into the night.

It had felt…nice.

And I feel light.

You are allowed to live.

I feel my lips tug up almost imperceptibly.

I spend my wake-up cycle staring out the glass of one of the sliding doors, curled up under the warm quilt. It's been getting noticeably colder with each passing day, and almost all the trees outside are completely bare. I feel it's going to be an early winter.

A few light knocks at my door has me sliding the rest of the way out of my groggy state. "Come in," I say, my voice still raspy from sleep.

Inumaki peeks in with a tray of breakfast, silent as I am, but kinder than I'll ever be. He waves his free hand. "Tuna," he greets. Good morning. I only watch him, yet my gaze isn't skeptical more. It's welcoming.

I'm almost…content to see him.

He comes in and closes the door behind him. Then he walks over to me and sets the tray on the floor, letting it be a barrier between us. As soon as it's down, he steps back, giving me space.

I observe the food, noting the plate of steaming rice and curry, orange slices again, and the usual glass of water. It looked good and familiar. "Did my brother make this?" I ask, looking back up at him.

He could've just given me a simple nod or shake of the head as his answer, but he pulls out his phone and starts typing in it instead. He sits crossed-legged on the other side of the tray and slides the phone over when he's done. I take it and read what he typed. Gojo-sensei makes every meal for you.

Guilt grapples at me for attention. He does? That means that every time I refused to eat…

I slide his hone back over, words leaving me like a fog slowly lifting from the ground. Inumaki looks at me with patient eyes, then nudges the tray of food closer to me. Eat.

I stare at the food, made by the loving hands of my brother.

I look away.

I'm like a wave in an ocean, crawling forward, only to recede. Over and over.

I'm on a rollercoaster, climbing up, only to fall back down. An endless loop.

I eat, and then I don't. I cry, and then I drown in my own silence. I'm here, and then I'm not.

Inumaki stands and goes to sit beside me. I'm in a mild panic, but he scoots away enough when he sits that it steadily subsides. He angled his head at me, his eyes void of judgement. Only curiosity glimmers in them. Why?

I stare into his eyes for a moment, wondering if the soul of the world lies in them. Then I look away with a hint of embarrassment on my cheeks. "I don't want to throw up again," I admit, because I really, truly don't. The last time I ate, I spent 30 minutes with my head in the toilet.

He raises his hand, and I look over to see the pads of his forefinger and thumb closing in on each other but stopping right as they're about to touch. Small bites.

I guess…that could work. I do like curry. I hesitate for a second before reaching out and lifting the silver spoon, carefully scooping a small portion of the food onto it. I bring it into my mouth, and the hunger hits me like a punch to the gut.

I'm starving.

I take another bite. Then another, savoring the spices and the way I can feel the food settle in my stomach. Bite after bite, I devour the food.

I'm about halfway through the meal when Inumaki lightly touches my shoulder. I flinch, and he quickly pulls his hand back before drawing it down at a slow rate. Slow down.

Right. I don't want to throw up again.

I set the spoon down, deciding to wait for the food to settle completely before continuing. I ponder the state of myself while Inumaki and I sit in silence, the boy looking curiously around the room at whatever grasps his attention.

I watch him, and come to a small, yet impactful realization. Really, it just…hits me. Maybe it's been building up all along, from Satoru's embrace to Maki's words, then Inumaki's kind eyes and actions.

All this time, I've been lying in bed, then sitting here on the floor, waiting for something. Waiting for my end, waiting for an answer to an unknown question to come to me.

Yet I don't have the answer. I don't know how to solve me yet or feel better. And I won't know until I just do, if that makes sense.

All I can do right now is breathe, and live, and just be. All I can do is eat and sleep and drink water. All I can do is get out of bed, push out of the darkness inside of myself, and walk towards whatever lies at the end of the tunnel.

All I can do is to just keep climbing.

I find myself playing with the ends of my matted white hair, the locks of it reaching all the way down to my waist. Inumaki looks over, and I meet his kind gaze.

The words leave my mouth before I can register them. "I want to cut my hair."

He complies, no questions asked.

"Did you know that hair holds memory?" Ms. Ieri asks as she surveys my hair, a pair of surgeon scissors in her hand. She had said that they would work better than regular scissors when Satoru had questioned her about them.

I shake my head, then stop as I realize that I should keep it still for her. "No," I say instead.

After voicing my want to Inumaki, the boy had only implored me to finish my food before going off to find Ms. Ieri, the most skilled person here with a pair of scissors. His typed-out words, not mine.

It makes sense, since she's a doctor and all that.

"Your hair can feel like a chain," she continues, and I wonder if she's ever toed on my shoes before. I wonder if she has ever felt like she was suffocating, like her head couldn't fit on her body the right way. "It feels heavy, doesn't it," she says softly.

We're in my room, where she had dragged in a highchair from somewhere and positioned it in front of the tall, black-framed mirror that's to the right of the bathroom door. It's where I sit now, a towel draped around my shoulders to keep strands of hair off my yukata.

"Yes," I find myself answering. "It feels like I'm drowning."

Satoru, from where he leans back against the oak door to the hall, doesn't say anything, though his shoulders stiffen ever so slightly. His blindfold is on, as usual, and masks any potential emotion in his sky-blue eyes.

Ms. Ieri responds by taking a lock of my matted hair in her hand, preparing the scissors in the other. "I want you to think of a memory. Something that haunts you so much that you can't even sleep without dreaming about it. Voice it out loud, if you need to."

She raises the scissors and brings them to my hair. "Then when I cut this section off, I want you to let it go."