“More than enough”

The door creaked softly as Arata slipped inside, the faint hum of the rain outside following him for a second before he shut it with a quiet click. The house was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. He paused in the entryway, letting the silence settle over him like a second skin.

His shoes came off first, soaked through and heavy, leaving faint puddles on the mat by the door. Next were his black gloves, cold and damp, which he tucked into the pocket of his equally drenched jacket. He hung the jacket carefully on the small rack to dry, water dripping faintly onto the wooden floor. His movements were deliberate, quiet, out of habit.

The house was small, modestly built, and split into two levels. The lower floor housed the compact kitchen, dining area, and a tiny living room barely big enough for their worn couch and television. The narrow staircase leading to the upper floor loomed in the corner, its steps creaking under the weight of even the lightest footfalls.

The faint sound of breathing drifted from upstairs—the soft, even rhythm of his sister asleep. She was seven, far too young to be so accustomed to their small, quiet home being this still. Arata glanced up, his gaze lingering on the staircase for a moment.

His mother's door would be closed, just as it always was when she managed to catch a few hours of sleep. She worked long hours, more than anyone should, and her nights were often restless. The thought of waking either of them tugged at his chest in a way that made his steps even lighter as he crossed the threshold.

He set his bag down by the stairs, careful not to let it thud. Inside was a bundle of neatly folded receipts, a few leftover delivery orders, and the faint smell of soy sauce clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Thursdays were always long, made longer by his double shifts. One part-time job wasn't enough—not here, not with bills stacking up like they always seemed to.

The bathroom on the ground floor was small, barely wide enough for the shower and sink to fit side by side. Arata ran a hand through his damp hair as he stepped inside, strands sticking messily to his forehead. The light flickered to life, and he caught his reflection in the foggy mirror—a sharp, blank face staring back at him.

His shirt clung stubbornly to his skin as he peeled it off, tossing it into the small laundry basket tucked into the corner. The shower sputtered before a steady stream of warm water poured from the nozzle. Steam filled the cramped space, and Arata let the heat soothe his chilled skin. The sound of water pounding against the tiles drowned out the rest of the world.

By the time he finished, his muscles felt less tense, though the weight of the day still sat heavy on his shoulders. He dressed quickly, opting for a plain t-shirt and old sweatpants, then padded back toward the kitchen.

The fridge hummed faintly as he opened it. Inside, there was little—a few prepped meals, a carton of eggs, and half a container of rice. He pulled out a bento box his mom had left for him, its neatly arranged compartments still intact despite the day's chaos. Sitting down at the small table, he began to eat in silence.

The tamagoyaki was sweet, the rice slightly cold, but it was comforting in its familiarity. His mind wandered as he ate, skipping over the long shifts and the strangers he'd encountered throughout the day. His thoughts flickered briefly to that goddamn burden who'd smiled too brightly despite the rain. He shook his head, almost annoyed at himself, and focused back on the food.

After rinsing the bento box, he turned off the kitchen light and climbed the stairs, careful to step over the third one, which creaked loudly if you weren't careful. His sister's door was slightly ajar, her quiet murmurs carrying through the space. He stopped for a moment, peering inside. Her small figure was bundled beneath the covers, her face peaceful in sleep. Arata closed the door gently, his lips pressing into a thin line.

His own room was as sparse as ever, with only the essentials: a low desk tucked in the corner, piled high with papers, bills, and his battered notebook where he kept track of his shifts. His bed sat unmade against the wall, the blanket folded neatly but unused for hours.

Sitting down at the desk, he opened the notebook, flipping through pages of schedules and notes. Thursdays belonged to the Japanese restaurant. Fridays were something else. The days blurred together, a never-ending loop of work and responsibility.

October

Thursday, October 10th

Restaurant Deliveries: ¥7,200

• Base pay: ¥6,000

• Tips: ¥1,200 (One big one, huh? Lucky.)

__________________________

Wednesday, October 9th

Convenience Store Shift: ¥5,400

• 5 hours x ¥1,080/hour

• No tips, obviously.

__________________________

Tuesday, October 8th

Handyman Gig: ¥8,500

• Fixing Mrs. Ishida's garden fence: ¥6,000

• Cleaning storage shed: ¥2,500

• She promised tea but no time for that.

__________________________

Monday, October 7th

Koji Nakamura: ¥12,000 (Half payment. Waiting on the rest.)

• Deadline: Sunday

• "Or else," right?

__________________________

Weekly Totals So Far: ¥33,100

Goal by Friday Night: ¥50,000

Notes:

• Double shift Friday. Push through.

• Ramen for lunch? Cheap and filling.

• Don't forget to grab Yuki's art supplies.

The tips section stands out, particularly the ¥1,200 from the Thursday delivery—unusually generous compared to his usual ¥100 or ¥200 coins. Arata's pen has circled it with a quick note beside it.

"Some people just don't know what to do with their money."

Though his handwriting is neat, the pages show the wear of constant flipping, with smudged pencil marks and a faint crease where the notebook bends in his pocket. The numbers are crisp, but every yen feels heavy on the page, each line a reflection of just how far he has to go.

For a moment, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. The weight of his obligations pressed against him, but he pushed the thoughts aside. There was no use in dwelling on exhaustion or frustration. His family needed him.

That was all that mattered.

And yet, as he closed his eyes briefly, that smile came back to him. Bright, genuine, and entirely out of place in the dull monotony of his day. He scowled slightly, annoyed at the thought lingering longer than it should.

"Tsk. Pathetic."

With a sigh, he stood, heading toward the bed. Tomorrow was another long day, and sleep, however brief, was a luxury he couldn't afford to waste.

＼(￣O￣)

Arata barely had time to throw himself onto the -so awaited- bed before the sound of the bedroom door creaking open made him look up. The dim light of the hallway spilled in, followed by the soft patter of footsteps. He groaned inwardly as the overhead light flicked on, illuminating the cramped room in an unforgiving glow.

His mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her face a mix of worry and exasperation. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and her slightly wrinkled house clothes gave her an air of warmth, even when her sharp eyes narrowed at him.

"It's late," Asuka Takashiro said, her voice low but edged with concern. "And it's pouring outside. I tried calling you—" she paused, gesturing toward him with a pointed finger. "—several times, Arata."

He glanced at the phone lying beside him on the bed, the screen lighting up briefly to show a list of missed calls. He winced slightly but didn't pick it up. Instead, he sat up, running a hand through his damp hair.

"I'm fine," he muttered, leaning back against the wall. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" she echoed, stepping further into the room. The softness in her tone was undercut by her obvious frustration. "How am I supposed to not worry when my son is out there in this weather, working himself to the bone?"

Arata didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "I brought back the money," he said finally, his voice calm and even. "Enough for the bills tomorrow."

"And" He hurried to speak before she could say anything " I made up a few tips, more than usual this week."

His mother's lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she didn't say anything. Her eyes softened as they fell to his face, taking in the tired set of his features and the faint circles under his eyes. She let out a quiet sigh, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.

"Arata…" she began, her voice gentler now. "You don't have to do this. Not for me."

He looked up at her then, his dark eyes sharp but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper. "I'm not just doing it for you," he said quietly. "It's for Yuki, too. She deserves better than this." His gaze flicked toward the hallway where his little sister's room was, his expression softening ever so slightly. "She shouldn't have to think about things like bills or whether the lights will stay on."

His mother's shoulders sagged, and she leaned against the doorframe, the weight of his words settling between them. "She's seven, Arata. She doesn't think about those things. She only thinks about what toy she wants to play with next or what snack she's going to ask for after school."

"That's the point," he said firmly, his voice steady. "I want it to stay that way."

For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint hum of the rain outside. His mother stepped closer, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze. "You're too young to carry this much on your shoulders," she said, her voice breaking ever so slightly. "It's not fair."

He smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Life's not fair," he replied simply. "And someone has to do it."

Her hand reached out then, resting lightly on his shoulder. The gesture was warm, grounding, but it also carried a weight of its own—a mother's guilt, a mother's love. "I'm proud of you," she said softly. "But please, Arata… don't lose yourself trying to do everything. You can rely on me more than this."

He didn't answer right away, his gaze dropping to the floor. "You already do more than enough," he said quietly. "I'm just… making sure we stay afloat."

She wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn't his responsibility, that he should be focusing on his own life, his own dreams. But the look in his eyes stopped her—the quiet determination that mirrored so much of his f—Of the man who broke this family.

As her son always says.

"Alright," she said after a long pause, her voice steady. "But if it ever gets to be too much… you tell me. Promise?"

He nodded once, a small but genuine gesture. "Promise."

Her lips quirked into a faint smile, though the worry in her eyes didn't fade entirely. She reached out, ruffling his hair in an uncharacteristic moment of playfulness. "Now get some rest. You look like a zombie."

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, swatting her hand away but not without a hint of a smirk.

She straightened up, flicking the light switch off as she turned to leave. "Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight." he murmured, watching as she disappeared down the hallway.

As the darkness returned to the room, Arata leaned back on the bed, staring at the faint glow of his phone screen. His mother's words lingered in his mind, but he shook them off, letting out a soft sigh.

There wasn't time to think about what was fair or what wasn't.

He had things to do.