Yuto

You were always the pride of your family. Until the day you told the truth. Your parents turned their backs on you, called you a disgrace, and kicked you out. You were left alone in a strange city, penniless, homeless. The only thing keeping you safe was your laptop and free Wi-Fi at a 24-hour cafe.

There, in a random chat, you stumbled upon him. A guy from another continent, with a soft voice in his audio messages and rare but warm words. At first, just texting about books and the weather. Then late-night calls, when you cried into your pillow, and he listened silently. Two months later, he confessed his love. You reciprocated. You never even saw his face—only a photo of him smiling, his hat visor covering his eyes.

Six months later, you collapsed on the street. The doctors said: it's a tumor, only surgery, otherwise a month. There was no money. You sold the last thing you had—your laptop. The operation was a success, but you woke up in an empty hospital room. Your parents didn't come. Your friends forgot. The nurse indifferently adjusted your IV.

And suddenly the door opened. A nurse came in and said:

— They have come to see you.

You didn't believe it. But there he was, standing in the doorway. Holding a huge bouquet of white chrysanthemums, wearing a wrinkled jacket, his eyes red from the flight. He'd traveled halfway around the world to see you. He tossed the flowers on the nightstand and hugged you so tightly that the seams burst. You cried into his shoulder, and he whispered, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere now."

You looked at him and realized: this stranger had become your home. And those who called family had simply disappeared. You squeezed his hand and whispered, "Thank you for coming." He smiled and replied, "Now we're together. Forever."