いやぁ、
昨日は最後にホオジロ🦈にかじられて、
負傷と後遺症を抱えながら帰宅しました。。
んもう、
絶妙に辛いわ。
今日はお休み。
微熱を抱えてます。
そ、久しぶりに完治された先生とのお食事会にて銀座へと繰り出してます～。
これもお仕事っ。
🦈に噛られたからってわけじゃないけど、
フカヒレが食べたくなりまして。
フカヒレってきます！
ま、
お暇な方は
前回のつづきをどうぞ～。
About a month after his surgery,
messages from him began to arrive again, little by little
— small fragments of his days, quiet reports of how he had been.
And then one day,
at last, he wrote:
“Perhaps we should meet for a little while and talk.”
Once, not so very long ago,those words alone would have been enough to unsettle my entire heart.
There had been a time when, even in the middle of work,simply knowing I would see him later would leave me unable to calm myself.
But that heart — the one that trembled for him so easily
—had already faded somewhere far away.
And yet…
caught between the last faint traces of longing I still carried,and the quiet certainty that I should never see him again,
in the end,it was the desire to see him that remained stronger.
So I decided to meet him.
After work.
At the place where we once used to wait for each other.
On the morning of that day,I stood before my closet for a long while.
I did not want my appearance to betray even the smallest fragment of attachment still left inside me.
I did not want to look beautiful for him.
Did not want my body to speak in ways my heart no longer wished to.
And so, instead of the dresses he had always known me in,I chose jeans — something he had never once seen me wear before.
Because if I had appeared before him in one of those carefully chosen dresses…
it would have felt as though leaving him had meant nothing at all.
As though my clothes themselves were whispering:
“Please love me again.”
“I was wrong to leave.”
And neither of those things were true.
Even now, I do not believe my decision was a mistake.
If anything,the time we spent apart allowed the fog around my heart to finally clear.
It gave me the distance to look at everything quietly, and without illusion.
To speak to the woman you are trying to loveabout the beauty of the wife you lost,
about the longing that still lives inside you,and to ask — however indirectly —whether she might become a substitute for the person who is gone…
Surely, that is not love.
And yet,strangely enough,it all felt painfully familiar to me somehow.
As though I had already spent my life standing in the shadow of someone else's absence.