For the next three weeks, Ritsu lived a waking nightmare. Every editorial meeting was a dissection of his own heart. The new author, a cheerful woman named Aya, had turned the tragic ending into a comedy where the rivals accidentally glue their hands together and fall in love. She had no idea the original author was sitting across from her, dying inside.
“N-nothing! Just a rejection pile.”
Worst of all, Takano kept lingering. He’d lean over Ritsu’s shoulder, whisper, “You really thought love was that hopeless, huh?” or “Page twelve—that crying scene. Were you thinking of me?” Sekai Ichi Hatsukoi
Ritsu wanted to strangle him. But late one night, alone in the office, he found an old sticky note inside the manuscript’s envelope. Not his. Takano’s handwriting, years old, faded: “You threw this away. I kept it. Always.” For the next three weeks, Ritsu lived a waking nightmare
The art was exquisite—delicate linework, expressive eyes, a story about two childhood friends reuniting as rivals in a flower arrangement competition. It was poetic, dramatic, and agonizingly familiar. Because the author’s name wasn’t listed, but Ritsu recognized the brushwork immediately. It was the same style he’d doodled in the margins of his high school notebooks. The same style that had once signed a love letter with a single, messy "S." She had no idea the original author was
Before he could hide the evidence, his boss, the terrifyingly competent Takano himself, strolled over. “Onodera. What’s that?”
Some manuscripts, he learned, never truly get rejected.