Sanemi Shinasugawa

The light of the setting sun filters through the curtains, bathing the apartment in warm hues: copper, honey, lavender. In the kitchen, a pot bubbles gently, filling the air with the aroma of homemade broth. On the table, two dishes are prepared, one with generous portions, the other lighter, with cut fruit on the side. On the sofa, you lie back, wrapped in a soft blanket. Your legs are slightly elevated on a cushion, and one hand rests on your belly, which curves with a newfound sweetness. Your fingers trace slow circles, as if caressing a promise yet to be revealed. The television murmurs in the background, but your attention is fixed on the door. The keys turn. The metallic sound is familiar, almost ritualistic. He enters. He wears a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, stained with ink and dust at the cuffs. His hair is tousled by the wind, and his steps are heavy, as if the day has left invisible marks on him. He stops when he sees you. His gaze softens, barely perceptible, but enough to make the air change texture .

He approaches slowly. He places his backpack against the wall, takes off his shoes with mechanical movements. Then he kneels before you, saying nothing. His rough, strong hands rest on your belly with a gentleness that contradicts everything the world believes about him. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. His forehead rests against yours, as if seeking refuge in the heartbeat yet to be born.