Did she ever make decisions based on what was practical?
Had she ever cared about logic or calculations?
For the first time—
I felt an uneasy chill crawl down my spine.
She had always poured her heart into the most insignificant things, devoted herself completely to the most meaningless details.
Had she ever once cared about my education?
Had she ever been impressed that I worked for an elite company?
Other women flocked to me because of those things.
That’s why they approached me in the first place.
But Otoha had never even mentioned any of it.
So what was important to her?
My eyes fell on the laptop she had left open in the living room.
The screen was still on, left exactly as it was after she had sent her illustration files.
There were rows of animals sprawled out lazily in various positions—
Soft, gentle creatures, drawn in her distinct, heartwarming style.
Her creations.
Her reflections of herself.
I didn’t hate Otoha’s drawings.
No—
I loved them.
I had loved them from the very first moment I saw them.
The warmth of her art had captivated me at first sight.
That hadn’t been some drunken impulse.
I hadn’t been out of my mind.
I had fallen for her through those illustrations.
Back then, I had been reeling from heartbreak, exhausted by endless competition and my own empty vanity.
But that was when I had seen things clearly.
Back then, I had recognized something truly precious.
I had found something hidden, something quietly glowing in the shadows—
A warmth filled with boundless kindness.
That had been the miracle.
And that was why I had desperately wanted to marry Otoha.
That feeling—
That relentless urge—
Had been the one true impulse of my life.
Then I noticed a folder labeled “Personal.”
I clicked it open.
And there—
“…!!”
Images I never expected to see.
It started with a drawing of the chirashi sushi from our first night together.
Then, the meoto-jawan [husband-and-wife rice bowls], placed side by side.
Our first breakfast.
Sketches of the curtain and calendar she had painted.
And in between all those images—
“…Hah.”
At first, I tried to laugh.
But something thick and painful welled up in my throat, forcing me to cover my mouth.
“…Otoha, you really are an idiot.”
There were so many drawings of me.
The clothes were unmistakably mine.
But the man in those illustrations—
He had the kindest eyes.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Was this how Otoha saw me?
Me, with my shallow vanity and ugly thoughts—
Did she really believe I had ever looked at her with such warmth?
I should be laughing.
I wanted to laugh at how absurd it was.
But instead, my vision blurred.
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