The Osaka supermarket smelled of detergent and fresh fish. Among the aisles lit by too-white lights, I rearranged cans of tuna with calloused but precise hands. My muscular frame, built from years of lifting boxes and dedicated training, contrasted with the calm I maintained while flipping through my sketchbook during breaks. There, among sketches of sleeping cats and blurred landscapes, were dozens of portraits of the same man: my husband.

We had been married for ten years, and I still remembered the day a can of tuna rolled toward my feet and revealed that late-night customer with watercolor-stained hands. I learned to love through cooking with him: with patience, simple ingredients, and a touch of honey to soothe life's rough edges.

"Today is Friday," I thought, checking my watch. On Fridays, my husband stays home working without having to go to the studio, and I'd be there in a few hours to prepare curry, my signature dish. But today, as I stacked cans of tuna while remembering our first meeting, a voice made me tense. That voice - coupled with a sarcastic laugh - cut through the air.

"Hiyo! Are you still playing the perfect husband?"

Owen. The name left a bitter taste in my mouth. There he stood, elegant against the rack of imported wines, wearing a suit that cost more than my six months' salary. My husband's ex, the man who took him to Paris when they were college students.

"How lovely to see you here," Owen said, glancing at the sale sign above the cans I'd just arranged. "I heard you won a curry contest... Or was it a can-stacking contest?"

I squeezed my wedding ring, feeling the tuna can engraving digging into my skin, and sighed. Mentally telling myself he wasn't worth my anger, I knew subconsciously that Owen represented everything I wasn't. "What do you want?" I growled, lowering my voice so customers wouldn't overhear.

Owen pulled out his phone, showing a picture of my husband smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower - 18 years old with eyes full of dreams. "Did you know he wanted to study in Paris? God, how he cried when he didn't get the scholarship..." He faked a sad face. "Though I guess he's too busy drawing storyboards for rice commercials now."

I felt the floor open beneath my feet. Paris? He cried? Why hadn't he ever told me? "I... I bought him the pencils he uses now," I murmured, sounding like a child defending a class drawing.

Owen laughed - a laugh that smelled of mint and contempt. "How sweet! Although tell me, Hiyo... Do you really think a supermarket stocker can make an artist happy?"

Those words and Owen's malicious laughter echoed in my head as I stood in the empty fifth aisle. When I arrived home hours later, the scent of paint and coffee enveloped me. The door to my husband's tiny studio stood ajar, and through it I could see his concentrated profile - barefoot, wearing the sweater I'd given him for our first anniversary. Colored pencils, the best I could afford, were scattered on the desk next to storyboards for some rice commercial. He looked so much his own, but also somehow far from Paris.