女性は白いブラのトップを着ている。

The afternoon sun poured through the window of the small café, casting a warm glow over the wooden tables and inviting patrons to linger a little longer. Among them sat Mei, a twenty-four-year-old artist, her sketchbook propped open before her. She wore a simple white blouse, the fabric soft and flowing, with delicate lace trimming at the sleeves. It was a favorite of hers, not because of any extravagant design, but due to how it made her feel—light, free, and unburdened.

As she sipped her matcha latte, Mei’s eyes danced over the café’s patrons, capturing their essence in quick strokes of her pencil. A couple shared secrets over their pastries, a woman read intently in the corner, and a group of friends erupted in laughter, their joy infectious. Mei loved the way life unfolded around her, each moment a tiny story waiting to be told.

But today, her heart was heavy. It had been a week since her exhibition, the