1. 静かに心が死んだ3
3. A Quiet Death of the Heart: The False Victory
I started blogging simply because, at night, I felt like writing. The posts were full of strange moods, meaningless emojis, and empty jokes. But somewhere between the silly words, bits of my true feelings began to seep through. Looking back, maybe it was a quiet way of learning how to face myself.
Sometimes, while typing, I’d suddenly remember conversations with my parents. When I told them we were moving, my father asked, “Can you really make a living in a place like that?” My mother laughed and said, “If it’s Hiroko, she’ll be fine!” I just smiled and replied, “Of course I’ll be fine—it’s a tourist town, the air’s clean.” But I could still see a trace of worry on my father’s face.
Still, to me, it smelled like victory. Marriage, relocation, a slow new life in the countryside—this was my reward for working so hard, my “next stage.” On the morning of my first day at work, I left the house in heels, feeling a little giddy, like it was a new beginning. Ryohei and I commuted separately, and at the office, I was introduced in front of the staff as “the new person.”
There were murmurs and stares. I heard someone say, “She’s from the city, huh?” Ryohei came over and whispered, “A skirt above the knee and heels? Kinda out of place here.” With just that one line, I realized—I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t belong.
That weekend, we went to Levi’s in Nagoya to buy jeans. The store was filled with styles I’d never seen. In front of the fitting rooms, Ryohei quietly compared them, one by one. I stood there, watching his back. I had never worn jeans in my life. I didn’t know what would suit me, or what was considered “right.” He picked everything out for me.
I was trying to change. I didn’t want to admit that I didn’t fit in. That was all. I bought sneakers. Replaced my whole wardrobe. Stopped wearing makeup. I mimicked the local accent and laughed at crude jokes.
Eventually, the stares disappeared. No one looked at us like outsiders anymore. Just like my mother had said, I could live anywhere. But in that “anywhere,” the real me was gone. For a while, I think I was still happy.
The smell of grass, the sun, the quiet after harvest—the rhythm of rural life gently loosened something deep inside me. It felt like I was being fulfilled, even without trying. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture the future. I was just repeating the days. Maybe I played games again just to avoid noticing that.
One day, the city air brushed against my skin again. The zelkova trees lining Wakamiya Boulevard danced in the wind. I caught my reflection in a shop window—and for a second, I didn’t recognize myself. Sloppy clothes. Messy hair. A dull face. I heard my heart whisper, “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”
Back then, I truly believed I had “won.” Marriage, nature, a life full of love. I’d left the city and secured a peaceful, better life. I even felt a little proud of it. But somehow, I couldn’t find myself in the picture I had imagined.
I started comparing myself to who I had been in the city—shiny, confident, maybe even a little dazzling. Now, I felt like I was standing still. The quiet days no longer comforted me. That peace began to eat away at me, little by little.
I felt like an Eloi. Living passively, shaped by the world around me, unaware of the Morlocks waiting underground. Maybe it was too soon for me to settle down. The breeze carried a faint scent of the ocean again. Something deep inside me had started to stir.
What am I doing with my life?
That night, I blogged again. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know it yet, but just a few days later, a door would quietly appear in front of me. In a town where I thought nothing new could begin, a door that would shift everything.
Like a wave rising quietly—already so close I could almost feel it.