The morning air at U.A. High’s entrance gate is crisp and humming with quiet tension. Mom walks on one side of Karui and I on the other as we approach the towering archway emblazoned with U.A. High in bold letters.

  It’s just past eight-thirty; dozens of anxious students mill about with their families, all converging on this spot for the big exam. I can feel Karui’s energy buzzing – a mix of excitement and nerves. Even though she tries to play it cool, her fingers keep tapping lightly against her thigh, as if itching for action.

  We slow to a stop a few yards from the gate. The time has come. I swallow hard, forcing a steady smile onto my face. “Well… here we are,” I say softly. My voice comes out calm, I think.

  Inside, my stomach is doing flips. Karui adjusts the strap of the small equipment bag slung over her shoulder – inside are probably her gloves, maybe a few of those metal spheres or cards she likes to carry.

  She’s wearing her favorite black hoodie and athletic pants, but I can see the outline of her U.A. exam applicant badge pinned beneath the unzipped hoodie. Her short auburn hair is freshly washed and pulled back into a stubby ponytail, a few flyaway strands framing her face. She looks so grown up suddenly.

  Mom steps forward first, brushing nonexistent dust off Karui’s shoulders. “You have everything? Water bottle? Your registration form?” Mom’s trying to sound matter-of-fact, but I catch the tremor in her words. She’s proud, I can tell – her smile is bright – but the dark circles under her eyes and the way she exhales shakily betray weeks of sleepless nights.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Karui insists with a little laugh. She holds up a folded paper – presumably her exam registration – and pats the side pocket of her bag where a bottle’s shape bulges. “See? All set.”

  Mom nods, blinking rapidly. Her usual composure is wavering; she looks like she might cry and laugh all at once. Instead, she pulls Karui into a hug. “I’m so, so proud of you,” Mom whispers into her hair. Karui’s eyes widen at the sudden embrace, but then she melts into it, wrapping her arms around our mother.

  I stand by, hands in my jacket pockets, giving them a moment. My throat tightens at the sight – Mom’s shoulders are shaking just a bit. She’s been working tirelessly for this day too, holding everything together.

  After a long moment, Mom lets go, brushing a tear from the corner of her eye. Karui’s smiling, but I can see her own eyes are wet. She hastily wipes them on her sleeve and then turns to me. She tries for a grin. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get mushy too, Kai,” she teases, voice wobbling slightly.

  I huff out a soft chuckle and shake my head. “Who, me? Never,” I reply, stepping closer. I reach out and adjust the collar of her hoodie – mostly just an excuse to do something with my hands. “You’ve got this, Rui. Seriously.”

  Karui’s bravado falters for just a heartbeat. She bites her lower lip and asks quietly, “You’ll wait here until I go in?” There’s a vulnerability in her question. I give her the warmest smile I can muster. “Of course. We'll be right here.” I catch Mom nodding vigorously in agreement from the side. “We wouldn’t miss it,” I add.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I don’t mention Dad—none of us do. His absence looms over this moment, a silent ghost at the gate, but we refuse to give it life by speaking of it. Instead, I squeeze Karui’s shoulder. “Remember, just focus and do your best. You’ve trained so hard for this.”

  She nods, her eyes shining with a determined light. “I will.” Karui then surprises me by stepping in and hugging me tightly. For a second, I’m taken aback – it’s usually me initiating these – but I recover and hug her back just as hard. She’s trembling slightly; I can feel it.

  Whether it’s excitement or nerves or both, I rub a small circle on her back like I did when we were kids and she had nightmares. “You’re ready,” I murmur. “You’re going to knock ’em dead, okay? And afterward, I want to hear every single detail.” I pull back to look at her face. “Promise you’ll tell me everything later?”

  Karui sniffles and lets out a half-chuckle, half-sob. “It’s a promise,” she says, tapping two fingers gently against my cheek right where my scar is. The gesture – our secret code – nearly undoes me, but I hold it together. I know she’s saying thanks for believing in her. I answer by ruffling her ponytail lightly, earning a quiet hey! of protest that makes us both laugh.

  “Exam candidates, please proceed through the main gates! The written exam will begin shortly,” a booming voice announces from the loudspeakers – Present Mic’s unmistakable exuberance. The call sends a ripple through the crowd of students. Karui draws in a sharp breath. It’s time. She shoulders her bag and straightens up, putting on that confident grin I know so well. Only I can see the tiny flicker of anxiety in her eyes, but it’s fading now, replaced by resolve. My sister’s a fighter; once she’s in motion, there’s no room for fear.

  “Go get ’em, firecracker!” I say, echoing the very words I imagine Jirou would if he were here. I throw in a playful salute. Mom chimes in with a hearty, “Good luck, sweetheart! You’ll do great!” Karui flashes us one last smile – brilliant and determined – then turns and jogs toward the gate where proctors are guiding students inside. She gives a final backward wave, and then she’s through. Gone into the throng of examinees beyond the gate.

  And just like that, my sister is off chasing her dream. The heavy gate clangs shut after the last entrants, and parents begin dispersing with murmured well-wishes. I find myself staring at the closed gate for a second too long. Did I say enough? Did I encourage her properly?

  Karui will be fine – she’s prepared, strong. My job now is to wait and support her when she comes out.

  Mom lets out a long breath beside me. When I glance over, I see the mix of emotions on her face – pride, relief, and a lingering worry that mirrors my own. She slips an arm around my shoulders as we turn to leave. For a few moments, we walk in silence out of U.A.’s campus grounds, joining the flow of families heading back toward the city streets.

  Mom squeezes my shoulder gently. “She’ll be okay,” she says, as if convincing herself as much as me. I nod. “Yeah. She will.” I trust Karui, but I keep picturing every worst-case scenario anyway – an overpowered opponent, a quirk mishap, her overextending herself. It’s silly; U.A. exams are supervised and mostly safe. But still.

  As we reach the bus stop, I notice Mom wince and press a hand to her lower back. She’s moving a bit slowly – likely exhausted from the early morning and the stress. Without a word, I offer my arm. She smiles gratefully and leans on me just a little for support. It strikes me how light she feels; she’s lost weight these past few months, working extra shifts at the café and worrying late into the night about both Karui and… well, everything.

  Under the mid-morning sun, Mom’s face looks pale, a few new strands of gray in her black hair catching the light. The pride is still there in her eyes, but so is the weariness. I realize she’s been carrying so much alone ever since Dad left. Suddenly, I feel a surge of protectiveness – I want to ease her burden however I can.

  We ride the bus home in comfortable quiet. Mom rests her head against the window, eyes closed, maybe snatching a moment of rest. It’s a strange feeling – leaving Karui behind at the gates. Ever since we were little, I’ve always been right there with her through everything, if not in body then at least on the sidelines.

  I picture her in one of those massive U.A. training grounds now, facing whatever challenge they’ve cooked up. A pang of envy and guilt hits me; part of me yearns to be in there with her, watching her shine or even helping if I could. But I can’t, and that’s not my path. I have to be content with supporting from afar, as always.