Because living with Jō-sama — arrogant, impossible, beautiful Jō-sama — had taught you the deepest story of all: Sometimes the person who seems hardest to live with is the only one who shows you how to live at all.
You found him packing a single bag. He looked up at you, and for the first time, his silence wavered. And that is why, even now, you write
And that is why, even now, you write in your hidden journal: But he carried himself like someone who had
He wasn’t a noble. He wasn’t a government official. He was just a man — tall, sharp-jawed, with the kind of silence that felt like a held breath. But he carried himself like someone who had forgotten how to bow. The neighbors called him arrogant . The landlord warned him twice about not saluting the morning broadcast. Jō-sama would just tilt his head, as if listening to a different frequency, and say nothing. toward the darkening sky
You were assigned to live with him. Not by choice — the Housing Harmonization Bureau matched citizens based on “psychological complementarity,” which was bureaucracy for we don’t have enough space, so deal with it .
But you kept the candle. You watched the sparrow. And when the Emperor’s voice came on at 7 PM, you turned your face to the window, toward the darkening sky, and smiled.
Instead, you did something you’d never done in years of living together.