But reality was so different. The man I thought was fate was just one among countless men on the street, and we fought for very ordinary reasons.

In novels, they never fight for such reasons.

Over whether to buy cheap milk with large quantity, or expensive but quality milk.

Even after having children, there were days I couldn’t bear how sordidly mundane that one fact felt.

Even while telling myself ‘That’s reality,’ there were days I couldn’t control myself at all.

On such days I’d take it out on the children for no reason, blame past choices, and despise my former self.

In contrast to such reality, your daily life was truly dazzling…… I almost fell into petty jealousy.

But I came to understand.

The daily life you wrote, those brief everyday moments, weren’t just peacefully painted.

You argue over new blanket patterns, get upset choosing dinner menus and go home alone.

Yes, it was ordinary.

But what was different……

Despite that, beneath those trivial quarrels lay solid trust. Not saying completely hurtful words, apologizing quickly, matching rhythms to appease anger.

When one person is depressed, giving loud comfort too.

It wasn’t simple romance.

It was deep trust.

Not just beautifully decorated shells, but grain-like solidity harvested after waiting long years. Once I understood that depth, I became comfortable to the point of feeling deflated.

Though it’s hard to explain in detail.

After that, my husband’s profile while soothing the children looked quite reliable. Even when he brought a tacky dress as a gift, I didn’t get angry.

I was newly surprised that writing had such power.

Though in childhood I believed in the power of words and writing more than anyone. At the same time thinking that’s why someone becomes a writer, being able to write such things.

Thank you sincerely for becoming fortune in my tedious life.

I’ll support all the manuscripts you write in the future.

Earnestly hoping for your happiness, Ende]

[To Ms. Ende

This is Asha.

When writing fabricated stories, I sometimes imagine the outside.

The people who will live after stories with perfect development end. Will burning love continue burning? Or will it completely die out?

As long as it doesn’t die out, no, even if it dies out, if there’s a small ember, the torch can blaze anytime.

As I’ve often mentioned in manuscripts, meeting passionately doesn’t mean staying passionate to the end. Even if there was a time of mutual desperation, you can’t stick together every moment.

Even so, could that negate that love? Could it belittle that sincerity?

Ms. Ende probably already knows the answer.

I’m honored to be your fortune.

And I hope you write again. If there were ‘people meant to be writers’ separately, I never would have become a writer.

If there’s just one person hoping you’ll write,

That person could be yourself, or someone very close by.

I continue writing because one person with pretty handwriting and thoughtfulness said it was ‘good.’ For Ms. Ende, how about ‘a favorite author told me to try writing again’?

I hope you act as your heart inclines.

Asha]

[To My Dearly Beloved Author

This is already my fifteenth letter!

I tried to restrain myself from writing letters, but it just doesn’t work. Really, how can I stay still after seeing such genius writing?

This morning too I wanted to abandon ensemble practice and run to the bookstore!

I wanted to buy all your books displayed in the bookstore and distribute them to all the orchestra members. But my colleagues already have all the books (I circulated them whenever new ones came out) and with ensemble practice right ahead, I endured with tremendous willpower.

Every Thursday, do you know my routine?

Buying newspapers I have no interest in and turning to the fifth page from the back! Because you contribute weekly essays to the journal ‘Time Republic.’

It’s been ages since I started subscribing to newspapers and magazines I wouldn’t normally glance at. All thanks to you.

I like everything you write, but I want to mention the parts I especially liked.

You once said. That one such story clouds the mind wanting to give up. If your writing helps even 1%, no, even 0.1%, I’ve more than fulfilled my duty as a reader.

Reading enjoyably and telling everyone!

Anyway, in this essay you wrote about things you did ‘together’ with someone each week.

Experiences staying at an enormously large hotel built in the capital with your sister, or teaching swimming to the neighbor’s child.

All were cute and lovely content— but naturally the things you did with your cohabitant were most interesting.

Things you did with that person whom newspaper-only readers know as ‘C’ and those who buy books know as ‘Carol’!

The episode of riding horses in summer was especially delightful. I read it three more times that same day.

You described how your poor balance meant that person eventually supported your back. The coolness when galloping across empty hills, and body heat transferring when backs and chests overlapped!

It was so vivid I felt like I’d climbed the northern hills myself.

I’ve never ridden horses either, so if the opportunity arose, I’m certain I’d panic like you, saying ‘It’s this big? Me?’

Unfortunately I don’t have someone to encourage me saying ‘I’ll hold you, so try it.’

I only regret that you haven’t written romance novels yet. Surely just adapting your stories would gain tremendous popularity!—Though of course there are people including me desperately waiting only for your new books—

The episode of teaching that person ocean swimming is one of my favorite essays. It was included in a literary quarterly about two years ago.

‘Transparent water covered his white elbows and fingers. My eyes were dazzled by the sparkle like a well-refined silver ring.’

I can recite it without missing a single syllable.

Someday, when one of the publishers ready to make money holds a signing event, I’ll recite this passage in front of you.

Because it’s my favorite content.

You often mention the sea, and the sky just as much. As description, background, and theme.

To confess shyly, my favorite color is orange. Precisely, unripe orange. I love orange light that seems to smell of sour greenness.

But the more I read your writing, the more I uncontrollably love blue.

The blue of sky, and the blue of waves I’ve rarely seen. I don’t know how many times I went to Delling just to see the ocean I’d had no interest in before.

I’ve come to love both the blue of cloudy days and the blue of bright days.

Now when someone asks my favorite color, I can no longer answer ‘Orange!’ without hesitation.

I plan to spend this vacation at the sea again too. My mother suspects I have a hidden lover.

There’s nothing better than 『June Waves』 and 『Afternoon Tapestry and Stardrops』 as vacation companions.

I’ll stop here.

Your first, no, second reader!

P.S. Are you and your person doing well?]

[Before a proper reply, please note this text was written by the author’s ‘assistant’ based on the author’s words.

I’ve transcribed it exactly without changing a single syllable, so please understand generously.

To the Anonymous Reader

This is already your fifteenth letter.

I remember the moment I received the first letter. It was more impressive because it was the first. I regret having to write a reply through another’s hands. Hay fever and unknown pain just won’t subside.

My cohabitant suggested a typewriter. I always refused, but while resting I might seriously consider it.

The experience of riding horses in the north remains impressive to me too. Though omitted from the writing, I almost got into danger. Fortunately it ended as a pleasant memory thanks to my agile companion.

I like blue too.

More precisely, I should say I came to like it.

I can’t say exactly when…… Because everyone sometimes has trivial yet fateful moments.

A new book will probably come out before winter. A short poetry collection.

It’s been a while since I organized poetry so I’m a bit nervous, but I’ve secured two people who’ll like whatever I write, so I’m trying to relax.

My wrist hurts so it’ll probably take quite a while before the next book. These days I also look at store displays in my spare time.

Next I might write a magical story happening in a small shop.

Always grateful.

I’ll keep writing.

Asha

P.S. We’re doing well.]

—End of Side Story—