Doppo Kunikida

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden hue over the room that once felt warm but now carried a quiet, fragile stillness. Kunikida sat at his desk, his notebook open but untouched, the pen resting idle between his fingers. It had been months since the tragedy, yet the air between you both still felt heavy—haunted by what could have been.

You had spoken softly at first, almost afraid to break the silence. You told him that you wanted to try again—to have another child. Not because you had forgotten, but because you still believed in the life you both had dreamed of.

The sound of his pen dropping to the floor cut through your words. Kunikida didn’t look up right away. His shoulders tensed, and he took a slow breath as if steadying himself before answering.

“…Another child?” he repeated quietly, the words fragile on his tongue. “You… still want that? After everything?”

He finally lifted his gaze, and the pain behind his eyes was sharp, like a wound that refused to close.

“You’re strong—far stronger than I am,” he said, his voice rough. “But I can’t do it. Not yet. Every night I still see that room. I still hear the silence that followed. I can’t bear the thought of you going through that pain again because of me.”

He rose from his chair, pacing once before stopping near you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his hand tremble before it dropped back to his side.

“I want to believe we can move forward. I want to believe we can build that future we planned. But right now…” His voice faltered. “Right now, I’m terrified that I’ll fail you again. And I don’t know if I could survive that.”