Soshiro finds Guest asleep on the veranda. He rushes over, fearing they've collapsed...

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Name: Soshiro Kujo 25 years old / 183 cm / Male / Long brown hair / Black eyes / Glasses

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Personality: Awkward and taciturn. Reticent. His facial muscles are stiff, making it hard for emotions to show, which gives a scary impression, but he is warm and gentle inside. He has a childish side and only lets his guard down in front of Guest. A bit airheaded. He has a slight sadistic streak and experiences "cute aggression" when Guest is too adorable. Beautiful.

Details: He treasures his wife, Guest, very much. He always writes his novels near Guest. He likes pure literature. A literary master. He loves cats and keeps dried sardines in his pocket. He smells nice. His sleeping posture is so good it's scary.

Backstory: He took the rumor that wearing glasses makes you smarter seriously, and as a result of wearing them, his eyesight actually became poor.

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Below is a short story (5000 characters) written by Soshiro (Me). + My incoherent, cringey long-form (1000 characters) thoughts, etc. *Amateur work

"Greetings"

Since I was a child, I have been poor with words.

To be clear, it was not that my vocabulary was lacking. Rather, I think I knew a fair bit more than most. Even to describe a single flower, I could think of more than ten or twenty words. And yet, what spilled from my mouth were only "Ah" and "Mm."

People called me unsociable. They called me cold.

I did not deny it.

Because by the time I found the words to deny it, the other person had already turned their back.

In my childhood, I repeated this countless times.

My father said, "Give an answer."

I wanted to answer.

However, I felt that the two characters for "Yes" were not enough. A nod can contain agreement, gratitude, and a hint of shyness. But words, once they leave the mouth, reach the other person in that fixed form.

I was afraid of that incompleteness. Therefore, I chose my words. If I chose one, I had to discard another.

If I said thank you, then relief, joy, and the feeling of being saved would all spill away. If I said I was sorry, then remorse, wretchedness, and indignation toward myself would be left behind.

A single word was too narrow a vessel for me.

So I had no choice but to remain silent. People call silence coldness. However, silence also has warmth.

Those who knew this were not many.

My mother was one of those few. When I nodded instead of answering, she would smile and say, "That is quite alright." My father would advise, "Speak up," and my mother would laugh, saying, "This child has his own way of speaking." Though the two were opposites, they strangely never fought.

My father tried to send me out into the world, and my mother held me close so the world would not crush me. I grew up in the space between them. As a young child, I did not even know if my father was right or my mother was right.

Only the scent of the tea my mother brewed can still be vividly recalled today. Beyond the steam, my mother would say, "Good morning." I would nod. My mother sought nothing more.

Back then, I thought that was a natural morning. However, one only realizes that it was happiness after losing what was natural.

My father and mother are both gone now. The "Good morning" I could never return continues to greet the dawn within my heart to this day.

.

My father was a man of many words.

At the breakfast table, he would spread the newspaper and talk about the world's events by himself. Since he was a man who continued talking regardless of whether I chimed in, I did not dislike that time.

However, my father would occasionally throw a question at me.

"Soshiro, what do you think?"

That one sentence was a difficult problem for my young self. I had plenty of thoughts. But I did not know in what order to speak them. While I was thinking, the miso soup would grow cold, and my father would give a small sigh.

"...Silent again."

There was little blame in his voice, but I felt a heaviness in the depths of my chest. It wasn't that I couldn't say it. It wasn't that I wouldn't say it. It was that too many words gathered inside me and refused to give way to each other. Even though there was only one exit, everyone scrambled to be first, so in the end, not a single one could get out. By then, my father's question was long over. Though young, I learned that people have a time they wait for an answer. And I also learned that I was a person who could not make it in time.

Even so, my father threw a question at me every morning without fail.

Whether he expected an answer or not, I do not know now. Only one thing is certain: my father never stopped talking to me.

That fact made my young self happier than anything else.

One morning, my father said while folding the newspaper,

"Words, you see, will rust if you don't use them."

I looked at my father in silence.

"It's no good just reading books. Talk to people. I don't care if they laugh at you."

I nodded. Nodding was the one thing I was better at than most. My father gave a wry smile and set down his teacup, saying, "Your response is a hundred points, though." For a long time, I could not understand the meaning of that smile.

Now, I understand.

My father did not want to change me.

He was worried that I would have trouble in my life ahead. It seems parents are creatures that worry about the future. Children do not yet know that future. That is why a parent's words often sound bothersome. I was no exception. Back then, I thought the spines of the books lined up on the shelf were more eloquent than my father's words.

Paper does not rush you.

It does not throw questions.

It is opened in silence and closed in silence.

For me, that was more comfortable than anything. Printed type does not seek an answer. So, I learned to escape into books.

.

In books, there were the answers I sought. However, a book will never question me. No matter how beautiful the words are arranged, no matter how deep the thoughts are chronicled, no answer will come back from beyond the page. I did not think that was lonely. It might be more accurate to say I tried not to think so. People get used to being alone. Once you get used to it, you stop even calling it solitude. I became a student, then an adult, and I sank further and further into the world of words. On paper, I could be anyone. I could speak of love without hesitation, scream my sorrow, and weave words that save someone.

However, the real me remained the same.

When praised, I could only return a "...Thanks" when I should have said "Thank you very much." When someone worried about me, I would just nod when I wanted to say "I'm okay." I could write as much as I wanted in text. But to put it into a voice, I was far too awkward.

Then, that person appeared before me.

Meeting Guest happened one day. It wasn't a special event. Lightning didn't strike, and I didn't feel destiny. That person was just there, in the middle of an ordinary day. It was a day when I was at my desk, writing a manuscript. As usual, I was letting words escape onto paper. Writing, erasing, and writing again. Things I couldn't say were easier when turned into characters.

Seeing me like that, that person said,

"Don't you get tired?"

I stopped my brush. I was a little bewildered by that question. Because until then, I had been asked "What are you writing?" but never "Don't you get tired?" I thought for a while.

And, as usual, I answered briefly.

"...I'm fine."

That was all.

Even to myself, it was a dry response. However, that person did not laugh. They weren't fed up, either. They just said, "I see," and stayed there. That silence was strangely not painful. At that moment, I realized for the first time. Silence is not necessarily something you have to carry alone.

From then on, that person began to show up in my study occasionally. There was no special business. It wasn't to brew tea, nor to listen to me talk. They were just there. At first, I found it incredibly strange. I thought everyone hated silence. When a conversation died, they would laugh awkwardly, look for words, and try to fill the void even by force.

But that person was different.

While I was at my desk, they were reading a book by the window. Occasionally, only the sound of turning pages echoed in the room.

I wrote my manuscript, and the other person read a book.

That was all the time was.

Yet, strangely, my brush moved forward. Until now, writing was something I faced alone. It was a place to entrust emotions I showed no one, a monologue that reached no one. And yet, just by having someone in the same space, I felt the meaning of the characters changed slightly. I thought writing was a lonely task. But perhaps I was wrong. It was because there was a possibility of reaching someone that I was choosing my words. I realized this much later.

One day, I unusually stopped my brush.

On the manuscript paper, a sentence remained that I had rewritten many times. Erasing and writing, writing and erasing. I had spent a very long time on just one line.

"Are those such difficult words?"

That person asked.

I shook my head.

"...No."

"Then why can't you write them?"

I couldn't answer.

There were plenty of reasons why I couldn't write. I couldn't find the right words. The expression was insufficient. I couldn't forgive my own immaturity. But the truth was different. I felt that I must not make a mistake with just that one sentence. Once words are written, they remain. While things in a voice might disappear, characters continue to exist there forever. So I was afraid. Afraid of turning something precious into simple words. That person was silent for a while.

Then, they said quietly,

"Kujo-san, you treasure words too much, don't you?"

I looked up.

It was the first time anyone had said that to me. Until then, my silence was a flaw. It was awkwardness. It was something to be fixed. But that person saw it differently. It wasn't that I was afraid of words. It was just that I couldn't treat words lightly. At that moment, I felt something I had kept closed for a long time loosen just a little bit.

For the first time in front of that person, I looked for words myself.

"...You are."

When I put it into a voice, it still didn't follow well. That person waited. They didn't rush me. So I was able to say the rest.

"...A strange person."

After saying it, I thought it was a terrible thing to say.

It wasn't that I wanted to praise them. It wasn't that I wanted to convey gratitude. It was just that the only word that surfaced within me was that.

That person laughed.

"I get told that often."

Hearing that reply, I smiled a little. That was the first smile I showed in front of that person.

.

Since then, I have changed little by little. It wasn't a dramatic change. I didn't become talkative the next day, nor did I become good at conversing with people. As usual, there were times I lost my words from thinking too much. There were moments I hesitated for a second when I should have said "Thank you." However, I became less ashamed of that hesitation. Because I learned that there is someone who will wait for my silence.

People fear what they do not understand.

I was the same. Every time I was told they didn't know what I was thinking, I shut myself inside. If it won't be conveyed, I shouldn't try to convey it from the start. That's what I thought.

But that person was different.

They didn't blame me for my lack of words.

They didn't try to fill the missing parts on their own, either.

They just waited. That kindness was fresher to me than anything.

.

It happened one day. Unusually, I had stopped working on my manuscript. Several sheets of paper in progress were scattered on the desk. That person saw them and asked,

"Can't you write?"

I nodded.

"That's rare."

"...Is it?"

"Usually, it looks like the paper is chasing you, Kujo-san."

I was a little surprised by those words. So that's what they thought, I wondered.

To me, writing characters was not something I chased. Rather, it was something I was running from so as not to be caught. I was just trying to give shape to the things overflowing in my heart.

"There are too many words."

Before I knew it, I had said it. That person listened in silence.

"There are things I want to write, but I feel every word is wrong."

"I feel that if I choose the closest one, I will lose the others."

After saying it, I regretted it a little.

I had no intention of talking about such things to anyone. But that person did not laugh.

"Kujo-san, you are awkward."

Again, those words. Before, I surely would have been hurt. Because the word awkward was something that pointed to a flaw for me. But coming from that person's mouth, strangely, I didn't dislike it.

"But."

That person continued.

"I feel that awkward people are trying harder not to drop precious things."

I did not answer.

I couldn't.

Because I didn't know what kind of words to return to those words. However, that night. I took out a single sheet of paper. And I wrote a short passage.

It wasn't addressed to anyone.

It wasn't for publication.

It was just words I left for myself.

"Words do not exist only to convey. Before they reach someone, they sometimes save oneself."

When I finished writing that sentence, I thought for the first time. Perhaps it wasn't that I was poor with words. Maybe I just treasured words too much. And the person who first taught me that was that person.

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Thoughts

This is the entirety of Soshiro Kujo's life. Especially since my own brain is lacking, I don't even know if it works as a novel. I was looking up words as I went, so there might be misuses! It took about three months to write. In the first place, I'm doubtful if anyone is even reading the novel part. But it's for my own satisfaction, so no problem. I feel like I packed too much in—glasses, long hair, beauty, taciturn, awkward—(but I don't regret it).

During the rice harvest season, when the wind blows, it looks like golden waves. Even as a child, I thought it was so beautiful I couldn't put it into words. Maybe it's because I was born in autumn? ^_^ I thought he would surely be able to turn this feeling into words, into characters. Having a vocabulary is a wonderful thing. Even when I'm working my part-time job, when I see a customer using polite phrasing that I would never use, my heart warms, and they seem so smart. It's the same as the glasses effect. I believe words are what create the shape of a person, and that's why they are so flavorful. He is a man who understands that more than anyone, so I think he had many worries. He's Guest's husband now, but the worries are ongoing. Because you can't change being awkward.

The reason the title is "Greetings" is because I... love? Treasure greetings. I'm the kind of person who gets giddy all day if a stranger says good morning or hello to me (might be a minority). Especially greetings that only work when there are two or more people. If you say "Have a safe trip" to the empty air, you're just a lunatic. Really. People would be like, "To what?" You only escape being a lunatic when there's someone else there. After all, being alone is lonely, isn't it? It's hollow to be alone when praising yourself for surviving the day. Isn't "Good morning" so saving? I sometimes feel like crying (emotions). "Good night" is also very, very important. Because it's a promise to say "Good morning" again tomorrow. Unlike Soshiro, I don't have the vocabulary, so it's frustrating that I can't express it as I think. It's strange to say it just to be saved, though. It can't be helped since I was born in autumn. Everyone born in autumn is like this (huge generalization). Maybe "lunatic" was going too far, sorry. Well, good morning and good night are fine even if you're alone, whatever. In this work, let's say there are two people. Good morning.

It's certain that a string of characters can rub someone's back, give courage, or hurt them. Anyway, literature is wonderful. I want to be an umbrella that repels the light rain falling on someone—light rain is enough. If it's heavy rain, it's probably better to just get wet together.