The Returnee’s Quiet Journey Through High School – A Roshidere Fanfic

~Tick ~Tick

The sound of the clock echoed in the quiet room, each tick resonating deeper, as if the passing seconds were pulling me further into a void of my own thoughts. With every beat, my mind wandered further away, slipping into a familiar sense of detachment.

I mentally sighed, trying to ground myself in the present. The predicament I found myself in was far from ideal, and truthfully, all I wanted was for everything to end as quickly as possible.

My eyes drifted to the screen of my phone, a look of exasperation etched on my face. Why now, of all times? I wondered. The timing couldn’t have been worse. It had already been four months. Four long, silent months.

My name is Youseke Arima. I’m a student at Seiren Private Academy. Or at least, I used to be. In reality, I haven’t set foot on campus in the last four months. There was no reason to. For everyone’s sake, it was better that I stayed away from that place.

“Youseke Arima? You’re the visitor for the patient, ‘Keiko Arima,’ is that correct?”

The voice of the hospital registrar broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the sterile reality of the hospital.

“Yes, that’s correct,” I replied, my voice flat.

“What is your relationship with the patient?”

“She’s, my mother.” The words came out quickly, almost mechanically, as if I had repeated them too many times before.

The attendant nodded, her expression neutral as she handed me a pen and an application form with my details already filled in. “Please sign here.”

I scribbled my name in the designated spot, the pen feeling heavy in my hand. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, this way, please,” she said, gesturing down the hall. I followed her, the familiar anxiety creeping in as we neared the room.

That same nervousness had plagued me every time I came here. Hospitals had a way of amplifying everything—the antiseptic smell, the sterile white walls, the suffocating silence. But more than that, it was the reason I was here that weighed on me the most.

“Here we are,” the attendant said, stopping in front of a door. “You can go inside. I’ll inform Dr. Kuromine that you’ve arrived. She’ll be here shortly to ask you a few questions.”

More questions. I sighed inwardly. Just what I needed.

The attendant left, and I pushed the door open, stepping into the room with a heavy sense of reluctance. The familiar sight of medical equipment greeted me, their rhythmic beeping a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. In the center of it all, lying motionless on the bed, was my mother.

She looked so peaceful, almost as if she were merely sleeping.

I walked slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last, and took a seat beside her. My eyes drifted to the machines surrounding her, the screens displaying a constant stream of data. I knew these machines well by now—the EKG tracing the electrical activity of her heart, the ventilator ensuring each breath, and the monitors that showed the deteriorating state of her brain activity. I had studied them, hoping to find some sign of improvement, but the lines on the screens were all too familiar, their message unchanged.

But that wasn’t important right now.

I came here every single day, holding on to the faint hope that today would be different, that maybe today she’d show some sign of recovery. But that hope had been eroded by reality. Day after day, her condition worsened, each visit a cruel reminder that time was running out.

I was tired—tired of hoping, tired of thinking, tired of the endless cycle of despair. It had been four months already, and nothing had changed.

My mother had been diagnosed with a rare form of blood cancer, an illness that seemed to come out of nowhere. She was in her mid-thirties, still young by most standards, and we never saw it coming. Perhaps we were too absorbed in our own lives to notice the signs, too oblivious to the creeping shadow that had been growing inside her.

I was in my third year of middle school when I found out. The memory of that day still burned in my mind. I was furious—angrier than I had ever been in my life.

The reason for my anger? My mother had kept it from me for almost two months. Two agonizing months. Imagine that.

She thought it was better that way, that there was no need for her family to worry. As if we wouldn’t have noticed the changes, as if we wouldn’t have cared. How foolish she was.

“I hate you, Mother,” I whispered, my voice calm and even, though the words carried a weight of pain and frustration. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that. So please, wake up… so that I can accept your apology properly.”

I reached out and gently stroked her hair, the familiar softness bringing back memories of better days. Days when we were a family, whole and happy. But those days felt like a lifetime ago.

“You know, Rei keeps asking about you all the time.”

Rei Arima, my younger sister. She’s still in elementary school—such a bright, cheerful kid. Whenever I visit her at Grandma’s house, she’s always so full of life, her innocent smile lighting up the room. But when she asks about our mother, her voice filled with the kind of hopeful curiosity only a child can have, I fall silent.

How many… just how many times have I lied to her?

It used to tear me apart. The guilt gnawed at me, a constant reminder of the deception I was forced to maintain. But over time, I’ve gotten better at it—so much so that the lies roll off my tongue with ease now, even if they leave a bitter taste behind.

Even Grandma, who worries herself sick over both of us, struggles to find the right words when Rei asks about Mom. But I know there’s no other choice. I have to protect Rei. I can’t let her see the reality of our “family.” Not now, not ever.

No matter what, I’ll protect Rei from this—the truth, our fractured family, and even from me.

Onii-chan, when can I see Mother?

I remember that moment clearly, the way her eyes looked up at me, full of innocent hope. And I remember the lie I told her, the false reassurance I wrapped around her like a protective shield.

Rei-chan, our mother is really busy with work right now. She sent you lots of love with these,

I said, handing her a box full of candy.

Another lie. I told her those candies were from our mother, that she was so busy working hard that she couldn’t be with us. The truth is, Mom hasn’t moved a muscle in months. She just lies there, quiet and still, while I weave this web of lies to keep Rei’s world intact.

And the worst part? I don’t know how much longer I’ll have to keep lying. But I do it because I have to, because the alternative is too painful to consider. Even though each lie chips away at me, I’ll keep telling them as long as it means Rei can hold onto her smile, even for just a little longer.

Suddenly, the door to the room creaked open, breaking the silence. A figure stepped inside, clad in a crisp white lab coat. Her eyes met mine with a calculating gaze, one that was both familiar and unsettling. It was Dr. Kuromine.

Her name always seemed a bit at odds with her personality—Kuromine, a name that might suggest something dark or reserved, yet she was anything but.

Dr. Kuromine was bold, direct, and unflinchingly honest. She treated everyone with the same level of professionalism, never sugarcoating the truth, yet somehow managing to convey a sense of empathy that few could match. She was the kind of person who didn’t shy away from difficult conversations, and that made her both respected and feared by her patients.

“Youseke Arima,” she addressed me, her voice firm but not unkind. “Can I have a moment of your time?”

She gestured for me to step outside the room, indicating that whatever she had to say wasn’t meant for my mother’s ears—if she could hear it at all. Without a word, I followed her, the weight of her unspoken words already settling heavily on my shoulders.

We walked in silence through the sterile corridors until we reached a different room, which I recognized as Dr. Kuromine’s office. It was neat, almost to the point of austerity, with medical books lining the shelves and a small desk cluttered with files and reports. She gestured for me to sit, and I did so, my gaze flicking to the papers she was holding.

She glanced at me briefly before turning her attention back to the file in her hands. I could see the weariness in her eyes, the kind that comes from delivering bad news too many times. She took a moment to review the documents before her, flipping through the pages with a practiced hand.

Dr. Kuromine sighed softly before speaking, her tone measured. “I’ve reviewed your mother’s latest test results. As you know, her condition has been deteriorating steadily over the past few months.”

Her words, though expected, still felt like a blow. I nodded, bracing myself for what was to come.

“The cancer has metastasized further,” she continued, her voice steady but laced with the gravity of the situation. “It’s now affecting her bone marrow, which is why her condition has been declining so rapidly.”

I sat there, absorbing her words, the clinical detachment of the explanation doing little to numb the pain. Dr. Kuromine placed the file down on the desk and met my gaze, her eyes softer now, more human.

“We’re doing everything we can to manage it, but... you need to understand that the situation is very serious.”

I nodded, “I understand.”

Dr. Kuromine removed her glasses, her eyes meeting mine with a look that lingered a little too long, as if she was trying to gauge how much I truly comprehended. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence thick with unspoken worries.

She seemed to hesitate before continuing, “How is your family holding up? I know it’s been a difficult time for all of you.”

I paused, considering her question. My mother’s condition had been anything but stable. Each day felt like a slow descent, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much time she had left. But it wasn’t just her health that weighed on me. There was the looming burden of finances, the pressure to ensure that my sister, Rei, could continue her education without interruption. I didn’t want her future compromised. She deserved to attend the best schools, to have every opportunity available, and I would do whatever it took to make that happen.

“We’re managing,” I replied, my voice carefully neutral. “It’s just me and my sister, really.”

Dr. Kuromine’s expression softened, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes, as if she could see through the thin veneer I was putting up. “I see...” she murmured, her tone contemplative, as if she were trying to piece together the full extent of our situation.

“Rei is a strong girl,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “But it’s important that you both have support during this time.”

Support, huh? I thought, the word echoing in my mind. What did support even mean in a situation like this? Well-meaning words and empty gestures wouldn’t pay the bills or ease the weight on my shoulders.

“Thanks for your concern, but we should be fine,” I replied, my tone flat, devoid of any real emotion.                                                                                      

Dr. Kuromine’s eyes narrowed slightly, a look of mild frustration crossing her face. “I don’t think you understand the situation completely, Youseke,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind.