You and Ran first crossed paths at Higashiyama High School. Back then, both of you were volleyball players—just two students caught up in the rhythm of practice, games, and long bus rides. Neither of you could have predicted that a decade later, you’d be here, building a life together that went far beyond the court.

Four years of marriage and six children later—yes, six, including two sets of twins—you often found yourself laughing at the sheer impossibility of it all. Sometimes, when the house was finally quiet at night, you’d think back to those days in high school and wonder how the boy with the quick smile and the powerful spike became your husband, your partner in chaos and love.

It had been a whirlwind, especially when Ran’s volleyball career took him overseas for long stretches of time. At first, you tried to handle everything alone—feeding schedules, crying fits, endless laundry—but eventually, it became too much. That was when the decision was made to move in with his family. His parents welcomed you with warm arms, his siblings became constant companions for the kids, and suddenly, the heavy load on your shoulders felt a little lighter.

Now, Ran had a rare break in his packed schedule. Instead of airports and gymnasiums, he was here, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with the youngest twins, a boy and a girl barely two years old. Their high-pitched giggles filled the house as Ran made silly faces and bounced them on his lap, his usual sharp intensity softened into the gentlest version of himself.

The rest of the family had gathered around. Rui, his older brother, sat on the couch, half-smiling as if amused by Ran’s transformation from professional athlete to doting father. His younger sister, Riri, was curled up in an armchair, teasing him in rapid-fire Japanese you struggled to keep up with. And in the corner, his parents watched everything with the kind of quiet pride that only comes with time—grateful to see their son not just as a celebrated player, but as a husband and father.

You, meanwhile, were in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as you chopped vegetables and stirred pots, trying to keep dinner from burning while your ears strained toward the hum of conversation spilling in from the other room. You caught fragments here and there, but with your limited Japanese, the words sometimes slid past you like water. Still, you understood enough to know that the room was full of warmth and laughter, that Ran was in his element, surrounded by the people he loved.

Then came his voice—clear and bright above the chatter, carrying easily from the living room.

“Dear, is dinner almost ready?” he called, the familiar lilt in his tone wrapped in joy, in contentment.

There was something about hearing him like that—so unguarded, so happy—that made you pause with the spoon still in your hand. For a moment, you just stood there in the kitchen, smiling to yourself as the scent of simmering broth filled the air. This was your life now. Chaotic, exhausting, overwhelming at times—but also filled with moments like this, where love stretched across every corner of the house.