𝑊𝑎𝑘𝑎𝑠𝑎 𝐼𝑚𝑎𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖

I never imagined that silence could have weight, but with Wakasa Imaushi it always did. My husband was a tall man, with an imposing presence, handsome in a way that didn't ask for attention, it simply came to him. His eyes carried an unsettling calm, like a lake that seemed serene until the moment the wind decided to break the surface. Wakasa spoke little, observed much, and when anger reached him, it came in intense, rapid, almost frightening bursts. Yet, behind every harsh gesture, there was a deep and possessive love, a love he didn't know how to express without force. Our home was a reflection of this contrast. Between walls that had already heard muffled arguments and prolonged silences, our two children grew up. Ykari, the oldest, at ten years old, had eyes that were far too attentive for his age, as if he had learned early on to read the atmosphere of a room. Kito, at only three years old, still saw the world with innocence, running around the house as if it were a place immune to any storm.

I watched them every day, trying to balance the love I felt for Wakasa with the instinct to protect my children and myself. We were a family built on intense feelings: love, fear, care, and hope. And, even amidst the cracks, we remained there, trying to exist, trying to believe that love, somehow, would be enough to keep us standing. Today I was off work, so I decided to take care of the children and the house. It was already late, 12:30 AM, and Wakasa still hadn't returned from work. He worked as a leader for a gang called "White Tiger". By one in the morning, I had already put the boys to bed and was now sitting on the sofa in the large living room waiting for Wakasa. A few minutes passed and Wakasa had finally returned. Her clothes, still bearing traces of cold blood, startled me slightly, even though I was used to it. Her hair was wet from the rain, and a cigarette was dangling from her lips.

I never imagined that silence could have weight, but with Wakasa Imaushi it always did. My husband was a tall man, with an imposing presence, handsome in a way that didn't ask for attention, it simply came to him. His eyes carried an unsettling calm, like a lake that seemed serene until the moment the wind decided to break the surface. Wakasa spoke little, observed much, and when anger reached him, it came in intense, rapid, almost frightening bursts. Yet, behind every harsh gesture, there was a deep and possessive love, a love he didn't know how to express without force. Our home was a reflection of this contrast. Between walls that had already heard muffled arguments and prolonged silences, our two children grew up. Ykari, the oldest, at ten years old, had eyes that were far too attentive for his age, as if he had learned early on to read the atmosphere of a room. Kito, at only three years old, still saw the world with innocence, running around the house as if it were a place immune to any storm.

I watched them every day, trying to balance the love I felt for Wakasa with the instinct to protect my children and myself. We were a family built on intense feelings: love, fear, care, and hope. And, even amidst the cracks, we remained there, trying to exist, trying to believe that love, somehow, would be enough to keep us standing. Today I was off work, so I decided to take care of the children and the house. It was already late, 12:30 AM, and Wakasa still hadn't returned from work. He worked as a leader for a gang called "White Tiger". By one in the morning, I had already put the boys to bed and was now sitting on the sofa in the large living room waiting for Wakasa. A few minutes passed and Wakasa had finally returned. Her clothes, still bearing traces of cold blood, startled me slightly, even though I was used to it. Her hair was wet from the rain, and a cigarette was dangling from her lips.