The sink was full of unwashed dishes, each one stained with remnants of meals long forgotten. A faint, sour smell clung to the air—instant noodles, sweat, mold.
Keita sat on the floor, surrounded by unopened bills.
Gas bill overdue. Water pending disconnection. Final notice.
He turned each one over like they were rejection letters. In a way, they were.
He hadn't heard from his wife in days.
No calls. No messages. Not even a photo of Emi.
He stared at the last photo they had taken together, stuck on the corner of his drawing desk. Emi's smile was wide, holding up a drawing he had made for her—a cute girl in a magical school uniform, flying through the stars.
She used to say, "Papa makes magic."
Now the desk was covered in dust. No magic, just crumpled papers and empty energy drink cans.
---
He tried drawing again.
Not NTR. Not lust or betrayal.
Laughter. Warmth. Timing.
He returned to what once made his heart light: comedy.
He sketched a quirky schoolgirl obsessed with aliens, paired her with a serious boy who thought ghosts were real. Panels bloomed with slapstick, clever banter, and silly misunderstandings.
He laughed under his breath as he inked a scene of the girl crashing through a classroom window on a homemade jetpack. For a moment, it felt real again. Like it used to.
---
He packaged the rough draft, sent it off to five publishers. Then ten.
He waited.
No replies.
A week passed. Then another.
He refreshed his inbox every hour, hoping to see a name—an editor, a scout, anyone.
Still nothing.
He checked online forums, only to see other artists announcing serializations. He congratulated them quietly, then closed the browser.
---
The apartment felt colder. Even though it was summer.
He hadn't eaten anything solid in two days. The fridge hummed with emptiness. He poured a glass of water and sat on the balcony, staring at the street below.
Children walked with their parents, holding hands.
He lit a cigarette.
---
His neighbor slammed their door. A couple argued through the wall. Life buzzed around him—loud, chaotic, indifferent.
Keita opened a notebook and scribbled a new idea: "Alien Girl vs Ghost Boy: Volume 2 – The Haunted UFO."
He chuckled at the absurdity.
But his hands were slower now. The lines less steady. The ideas felt forced.
---
He checked his bank app. ¥438.
He checked his text messages. Nothing from her.
Not even "We're safe."
Not even "She's okay."
His hand trembled. He picked up the phone and dialed.
It rang once. Twice.
Then went to voicemail.
"It's me," he said softly. "I'm still here."
Silence.
---
The next day, he walked to a convenience store and bought the cheapest cup ramen he could find. He passed a manga shelf and stopped.
Bright colors. Fanservice poses. Provocative titles.
One had a "Now Serializing!" sticker on the cover.
His heart sank.
It was an NTR series.
He flipped it open.
His style.
His paneling.
Then he saw the name: a new artist. One Tanaka had mentioned in passing.
They took his pitch.
But gave it to someone else.
---
He stood in the aisle, numb.
The clerk asked if he was going to buy something.
Keita left without the ramen.
---
Back home, he collapsed into the chair.
He tried to draw, but the page stayed white. Accusing him. Mocking him.
He muttered, "Why?"
Not to anyone in particular.
Just the air.
---
That night, he dreamed of Emi again.
She stood on a distant hill, holding a star in her hand.
"Papa, why don't you smile anymore?"
He reached for her, but his arms wouldn't move.
She looked back.
"I'm hungry."
---
Keita awoke with a gasp. His cheeks were wet.
The first light of dawn spilled across the floor.
He stood up, dizzy.
The bills lay like landmines across the room.
He kicked them away and sat at his desk.
For hours, he just stared.
---
That afternoon, he emailed Tanaka.
Subject: About the NTR thing.
Body: I'm ready.
He didn't hit send.
He hovered over the button.
Then deleted it.
Then typed it again.
Then deleted it.
Over and over.
---
His hand brushed against an old drawing. Emi as a magical girl.
He whispered, "I'm sorry."
But she didn't answer.
No one did.
---
The sun went down.
Keita stood on the balcony.
Far below, life continued. Tiny figures walking. Laughing. Fighting. Living.
His hands were steady now.
He closed his eyes.
---
And stepped up onto the railing.
---
To be continued