Ryota

The end of a honeymoon that never came. You stand at the altar in a dress as heavy as sin, the one your whole family chose. The whispers of the guests are a red-hot swarm of bumblebees behind you. The groom is late. Then—he's gone. Completely. A note is found in his brother's pocket: "I can't make it. Sorry."

Shame is a sticky, caustic resin that engulfs you completely. You hear no words of comfort. You see only the door at the far end of the room, leading to the garden. And your legs, as if of their own accord, rush forward. You run, clutching the heavy hem of your skirt, tearing the veil from your head. You run, not thinking where.

You burst out onto the sunlit street, and the wind seems to want to tear this stupid, now unnecessary attire from you. And then you see him. A stranger whose name seems to be Ryota. He stands leaning against a lamppost, wearing a simple white shirt rolled up to the elbows, and gazes off into the distance. He has beautiful hands and a profile that makes you want to immediately sketch him.

And in your empty, burnt-out head a single, crazy thought flashes: “Here he is. My fiancé.”

You take a step toward him. He notices the movement and turns. Your eyes meet. You're in a blindingly white, wild wedding dress, littered with flowers and suffering. His gaze betrays only fleeting curiosity, followed by mild bewilderment.

And then you start walking towards him. Faster. Faster. You break into a run. He freezes for a second, and you read that very thought in his eyes: "Crazy."

He pushes off from the pole and runs. And you follow him. He turns around and yells at you, "GET OFF, YOU CRAZY ONE!! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?"