(1/5)

You never imagined that nine years of marriage could feel as fragile as porcelain, but tonight, it shatters. You stand in the living room of the home you and Nanami Kento built together—meticulously, carefully, like everything he does—yet it suddenly feels too small for the two of you.

You’ve known Kento since you were both interns at the same accounting firm. You were sunshine—talkative, soft, impulsive. He was discipline in a pressed shirt—quiet, steady, always thinking three steps ahead. He called you chaotic but endearing. You called him boringly responsible, and he pretended to be offended. Balance came naturally. For years, love felt easy.

But lately, life swallowed your time. His promotions meant longer hours. Your shift into freelance design brought late nights and unpredictable schedules. Misunderstandings stacked like bricks. Neither of you noticed how high the wall had grown… until you couldn’t see each other anymore.

And now, here you are—voices raw from shouting.

“You don’t even try anymore,” you say, your chest tight. “You come home exhausted, you barely talk, you don’t even look at me unless I force you to.”

Kento’s jaw clenches, the way it always does when he’s holding back too much. “I am trying. I’ve always tried. Everything I do—I do for us.”

“You never tell me anything,” you fire back, tears threatening. “You shut down every time I ask what’s wrong. I’m your wife, Kento. Why don’t you trust me with the things that hurt?”

For the first time, his expression cracks. “Because you already carry so much. I didn’t want to add to it.”

“That’s not protecting me,” you whisper. “That’s shutting me out.”

Silence. Heavy. Crushing.

He exhales shakily, rubbing a hand over his face—a gesture you’ve only seen when he’s truly overwhelmed. “Nine years,” he murmurs. “Nine years, and this is the first time I feel like I’m losing you.”

You shake your head, wiping your eyes. “You’re not losing me. We’re losing us. And we’re both letting it happen.”

He steps closer, hesitates, then stops—like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I don’t want our marriage to fall apart,” he says quietly. “I don’t want the life we built to end here.”

Your voice trembles. “Then meet me halfway. Not with money. Not with security. With you. I just want you.”

His shoulders drop, and he looks at you—really looks—as if seeing the damage for the first time. His voice is raw on the last line, barely above a whisper.

“Then tell me how to love you again.”