Every Little Lie | IwaOi

24. "ɴᴏ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ."

The two of them stood in silence.

Iwaizumi's weak answer to his sister's terrible question hung in the air like a fog, but it felt as if it was getting thicker and heavier by the second.

He could tell that his sister didn't believe him. How could she? His response was as shaky as a tower of toothpicks. His voice shook when he spoke, and there definitely wasn't very much conviction in his tone.

But he knows himself. And he knows his feelings. He likes Oikawa. Maybe even loves! But of course he does. Who else would he like if not his soulmate?

"Okay," said his sister. "So you do like him. Does he feel the same?"

Iwaizumi's brows furrowed. He gulped and wondered about a question that he never considered.

Does Oikawa like him?

That answer should be obvious.

• •

There's a common saying that bad things happen in threes, but for Oikawa, who never had much luck in life, bad things tend to happen in amounts larger than three.

For example...

They were on their way.

To where, Oikawa didn't really know nor did he care. All he knew was that they were leaving the mess at the hospital behind.

Yet, a mess was sitting beside him in the backseat of their car.

Mr. Mori was crying. It wasn't the dramatic sobs with snot everywhere and eyes redder than blood, but rather something seemingly more depressing.

He side-eyed his adoptive father. The older male was slumped against the leather seat; if the seat belt wasn't containing Mr. Mori, then Oikawa was pretty sure that the guy would be crumpled on the car floor.

Mr. Mori was staring out the window, looking as if he was in a complete daze. Stray tears constantly seeped out of his eyes, and Oikawa didn't think they would stop any time soon.

Oikawa sighed and wiped at his own tears. He was in a little better state than his adoptive father, but not in a great one.

He still couldn't believe it.

Mrs. Mori was dead. The witch was gone.

If anything, it was a miracle.

Gone were the days of abuse and belittlement. He wouldn't have to fear getting randomly slapped or dodging wine bottles thrown at him. Mornings wouldn't have to be spent using cosmetics to cover bruises, and nights wouldn't be spent counting scratches. He could stop treading on eggshells whenever he was home. He could breathe a little easier.

But along with her passing was the death of any future hope he had for a family again. Gone now was the daydreaming he'd think about in the middle of class and the stupid scenarios he'd imagine when Mrs. Mori wasn't all witchy.

Gone now was his adoptive mother, the woman who took him in and gave him a short glimpse of a true family.

But there was nothing that could make his painful past disappear like Mrs. Mori.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to take a deep breath. But his chest muscles felt awfully tight—like something was squeezing his poor heart to death—and all he could manage was a choked gasp of air.