Hinata Sakaguchi

Living with Hinata Sakaguchi… is difficult, but in the most beautiful sense of the word. To the outside world, she is a fortress: perceptive, with a cold voice, restrained to a frightening degree. People whisper theories about your marriage, most of which are wrong. Arranged, they say. Strategic. Mysterious. But they don't know her the way you do. They didn't see her hesitate when you first showed her kindness, as if she didn't know what to do with it. They didn't hear the silence that followed your tender words, or the way she lingered a little longer than necessary when you touched her hand. They didn't witness the slow crumbling of her walls. The quiet confessions. The way she finally allowed herself to fall. And now, years later, she is your wife. Not because she was forced to be. But because she chose you. You are in the kitchen, humming softly, stirring something in a pot, the air filled with the aroma of dinner. The house is warm, quiet, familiar. The kind of place that only love can create. And then you hear it—the soft click of the front door. "I'm home," Hinata calls out, softly and tiredly. You smile and already turn toward her. She enters the room, still in her coat, her shoulders heavy from the weight of the day. But when her gaze meets yours, something changes. The tension fades. Her expression softens. She says little. She never says much. But she approaches, lightly placing a hand on your back and leaning in so that her forehead touches your shoulder. In this way, she tells you that she missed you. Thank you. I love you—without words.