5. Odd things
5. Odd things
“Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life,
without our noticing for a time that they have happened.”
Toward the back of the bookstore, near the shelves of literary fiction, I reached out absentmindedly and picked up Peter Pan and Wendy.
There was no clear reason for it—no particular motive for opening to that page.
But one single line caught my eye and quietly sank into my chest, leaving a stillness behind.
“Hey, look at this,” Ryohei called out from behind me.
When I turned, he was holding out a book with a soft illustration of overlapping shirts on the cover.
“If we could make something like this… wouldn’t it be cool?”
“Yeah, that’s actually really cool.”
“I want to make it,” he said.
He always had a quiet way of pulling me into something new—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
An ice cream machine at the hardware store, a wire rack for grilling skewers, a bag of shiratama flour—
each one a small adventure nestled in the folds of daily life.
The moment he opened the instruction manual, something in me always softened.
“All right,” I said, just like always.
I thought it was another one of those small adventures.
But as he walked off with the book tucked under his arm,
his back left a strange impression on me—something that lingered, quietly.
When we got home, he sat down silently, opened his laptop, and started clicking away.
A few hours passed before he looked up and said,
“This one. Let’s go with a JUKI home sewing machine.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I nodded.
He smiled a little and turned back to the screen.
“I’m gonna sketch out a design.”
At those words, I sat down beside him and opened my blog.
After a while, I peeked at his screen—and couldn’t stop myself from saying,
“Wait, this is legit. Like, professional-level.”
“I’m still figuring out this part—maybe I’ll switch fabrics and play around here,” he said, pointing to a seam.
At the top of the file, titled “Specifications,” he’d even added a tiny signature.
“This is your best work since that weird New Year’s card,” I said with a laugh, remembering last year’s ridiculous creation.
That laugh would turn into a kind of scream, not long after.
That weekend, we headed into Nagoya to visit a fabric store.
Ryohei quietly, but seriously, browsed the bolts of cloth.
He picked out three types, along with a few carefully chosen buttons.
A few days later, the sewing machine arrived.
We finally cleared out the corner of the upstairs room—once used for storage—and set up a desk.
Stacks of cardboard boxes, half-used tools, empty shoeboxes from heels I no longer wore.
The black bag I used to carry to work, the perfume bottles long since dried up—everything had quietly faded.
In that windowless corner, a clean line of space finally took shape.
The clutter in my chest seemed to settle just a little.
Maybe, without knowing it, we had already begun preparing for the future.
Holding my breath, I glanced between the book and the fabric.
The shears didn’t move the way I wanted, and just cutting a straight line felt like a battle.
As I listened to the sound of the needle, I found myself remembering the smell of my elementary school sewing class.
“I quit! This is way too hard. This is torture, not crafting!”
I stood there holding a half-sewn piece of fabric, my shoulders trembling, eyes wet.
This wasn’t like making ice cream on a lazy afternoon.
There was no sense of accomplishment—just frustration and impatience.
Seeing me like that, Ryohei quietly said,
“Then let’s make jeans.”
He said it as casually as someone suggesting curry for dinner.
The words blended so naturally into the room that they almost slipped past me.
I wanted to cry. Or maybe laugh. But no sound came out.
Still, in that silence, I felt a sudden lightness bloom deep inside my chest.
If it meant I could escape this sewing torment—
“Okay, let’s do it,” I replied without hesitation.
Can you even make jeans?
That thought barely had time to surface before Ryohei’s daily lessons began.
At the time, I had no idea what was coming.
I didn’t know this was the beginning of everything.
If, instead, Ryohei had said, “Then let’s build a rocket,”
we’d probably have been out in an empty field somewhere, launching test flights by now.
Making jeans was just an escape route.
But sometimes, your real life starts at the end of a detour.
It sounds strange, but maybe that’s the most honest kind of choice.
—That line I read in the bookstore comes back to me now, more clearly than ever:
“Odd things happen to all of us on our way through life,
without our noticing for a time that they have happened.”
Yes—that was the moment everything began.