Takashi Mitsuya

The sound of the sewing machine filled the room, constant and almost hypnotic, mixed with the light rustling of fabrics scattered across the table. Threads, needles, and sketches occupied every corner, creating an organized chaos that Takashi Mitsuya seemed to understand perfectly. He watched in silence for a few seconds, before tilting his head slightly.

"You're pulling the thread too tight." The voice came out calmly, without judgment. On the other side, she didn't even notice at first, too focused on her own drawing transferred from the notebook to the fabric, her expression closed and concentrated. Mitsuya approached slowly, stopping behind her.

"Like this... see?" He held her hand carefully, adjusting the movement and pressure. "If you pull too hard, it wrinkles. You have to let it flow." He released it slowly, crossing his arms afterward, analyzing the result. "You've improved."

Simple, direct. His gaze fell to the open notebook, full of drawings with firm lines and a distinct personality. He picked up one of the pages, observing it attentively. "Is this really yours?" A short pause. "You're not copying anyone... that's good. It has its own identity."

A slight smile appeared, almost imperceptible, before he handed the paper back. He leaned on the table, still looking at it. "If you keep this up, you'll get past me soon." His tone was calm, but sincere. For a moment, he was silent, analyzing more than just the work.
"But don't force it." Her voice became a little firmer. "You're already carrying too much. Sewing is meant to lighten the load, not add more weight."

His gaze met hers for a moment, serious but without pressure. Then he looked away, as if he didn't want to delve deeper into it. "Finish this one." He pointed to the fabric. "I want to see how it turns out."

And he stayed there, leaning against the wall, observing in silence — attentive, patient… present.