Read Novel Full Chapter 571: Yuko’s Confession: I Hate Her
Chapter 571: Yuko’s Confession: I Hate Her
Yuko’s fingers stilled. For a moment, I thought she might not answer. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting mine with a raw honesty that made my chest tighten.
"It’s not just hard. It’s... complicated. There are things she’s done, things she’s said, that I can’t just forget. And I won’t." Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor beneath it, something fragile. "So if you’re worried about me telling her anything—about you, don’t be. I don’t talk to her. I won’t."
The weight of Yuko’s words pressed down on the room like a storm about to break. It wasn’t just reassurance—it was a vow, sharp and unyielding, forged in years of silence and pain. Her voice carried the finality of someone who had long since drawn their lines in the sand, who had built walls not out of spite, but survival.
"Sister Yuko—" I started, but she cut me off with a sharp shake of her head, her dark eyes flashing with something fierce and unspoken.
"I just wanted you to know," she said, her voice softer now, but no less heavy. The anger had drained out of her tone, replaced by something weary, something that sounded like resignation. "You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me. Not about this."
I studied her—the way her fingers dug into the armrest of the chair, her knuckles white, the way her shoulders had slumped just slightly, as if the weight of her own words had settled onto them. There was a fragility there, hidden beneath the steel in her voice, and it made my chest ache.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "For telling me."
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stared at the floor, her jaw clenched, like she was fighting some internal battle. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until I couldn’t bear it anymore.
I took a deep breath, my mind racing. I wanted to reach her—not just in this moment, but forever.
I wanted to be someone she couldn’t forget, someone who understood the storms inside her. The thought was sudden, almost desperate, but it burned through me with a clarity I couldn’t ignore.
"Sister Yuko," I began, my voice careful, "you know about my mom and dad, right?"
Yuko’s head snapped up, her eyes locking onto mine. She knew. Of course she did. She had to have looked into my past, just as I had glimpsed the fractures in hers. The death of my parents wasn’t something I talked about often, but the pain of it was something I carried every day.
"I’m sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but it wasn’t pity in her tone—it was understanding. She knew what it was like to lose something irreplaceable.
I exhaled slowly, the words clawing their way out of me. "I had so many things I wanted to say to them. So many things I wanted to give them, to show them." My voice cracked, and I paused, forcing myself to steady it. "Now I have everything a son could ever give his parents—success, stability, everything—but they’re not here. They’ll never know."
The room felt smaller, the air heavier. I could feel the grief pressing in around me, but I pushed through it, my gaze fixed on Yuko. "So whatever happened between you and your mother... it doesn’t change the fact that you love her. Deep down, no matter how much it hurts, that love is still there."
Yuko’s entire body went rigid. Her fingers dug into the armrest so hard I thought the fabric might tear. When she spoke, her voice was a low, trembling growl, raw with years of buried fury.
"No."
The word was a blade, sharp and final. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, her dark eyes burning with something wild and untamed. "You don’t know what you’re talking about," she spat, her voice shaking with barely contained rage. "You don’t know her. You don’t know what she did."
I stayed silent, letting her fury fill the space between us. I could see it—the storm inside her, the way her chest heaved with each breath, the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"I don’t love her," she hissed, her voice breaking. "I hate her. I hate her. She doesn’t deserve my love. She doesn’t deserve anything from me."
Her voice cracked, and for a second, I saw it—the pain beneath the anger, the wound that had never healed. She turned away, her shoulders shaking slightly, but not from tears. From fury. From the weight of everything she’d never said.
"You don’t understand," she whispered, her voice raw. "You can’t."
I wanted to reach out—to pull her back from the edge of her own pain, to wrap my hands around hers and tell her she wasn’t alone. But I knew I couldn’t. Not yet. The storm inside her was too fierce, too raw, and any attempt to calm it might only make it worse. So I stayed where I was, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat, and let her rage fill the room. Let it crash over us like waves against a shore.
Because sometimes, anger is the only thing that keeps you from drowning. And right now, Yuko was fighting just to stay afloat.
The air between us was thick with the weight of everything unsaid, every wound left open, every scar still tender. I could see the way her shoulders trembled, not with tears, but with the sheer force of her fury—her fists clenched so tightly her nails must have been digging into her palms. She stood there, her back to me, as if she couldn’t bear to face me, couldn’t bear to let me see the cracks in her armor.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "I’m sorry," I said, my voice low, rough with regret. "If I hurt you... I didn’t mean that. I just... I just don’t want you to have any regrets."
The words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain. I meant them. More than anything, I didn’t want her to look back one day and wish she had said the things she was too afraid to say now. But I also knew that some wounds run too deep for simple words to heal.
Yuko didn’t move. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, perfectly still, as if my apology had frozen her in place. The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, until I wasn’t sure she was going to respond at all.
Then, slowly, she exhaled—a shaky, uneven breath that sounded like it had been torn from her. "You don’t get it," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something far louder. "Some things... some things can’t be fixed with words. Some things can’t be fixed at all."
She turned her head just slightly, enough that I could see the profile of her face, the way her jaw was still clenched, the way her eyes were dark with something that looked like grief. "You think I’ll regret not telling her I love her? You think that’s the thing that will haunt me?"