The literary award

Another rainy day in this damn city, she says to herself as she slowly gets out of bed and pushes the duvet off her. Sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands on the mattress, she takes a deep breath and puts on her furry slippers one by one.

It's been weeks since they last came to clean — practically the same amount of time since Andoresu, her literary agent, last called her. She should have called them by now. But who should she call? The cleaning company or her agent? Either way, she can't keep spiralling like this, or she won't make it to the end of the month.

When she finally manages to get past the window that separates her bedroom from the living room, she trips over the dining room table, throwing me against the kitchen wall and breaking me into a thousand pieces.

—Noooo!' Shit! Fuck! Just what I needed —she says, dropping to her knees, devastated. Carefully, she crawls over to pick up the pieces of me, one by one.

I have been with Ridia for three years now. I was one of her first awards, the first one that meant something to her. During this time, we have moved house four times, lived in two different places, experienced a long-distance relationship that ended badly, enjoyed many literary successes and met some interesting people, including her agent. Andoresu has been with Ridia since she launched her first bestseller, shortly after she started her writing career. He has been through practically everything with her and has never let her down — until now.

She hasn't written a single word in three months. I don't even know if she's trying. When I watch her, there's a lost look in her eyes. She seems to be contemplating the world, but she's not taking anything in. She needs to experience life. Without experiencing new places, or even revisiting familiar ones, it will be impossible for her to find inspiration.

Exhausted, she approaches the trash can with my pieces in her hands, but just before dropping me in, she thinks: What if there's a way to fix this? She leaves me on a rag on the kitchen counter and goes straight to the computer. She opens Google and types, «Techniques for repairing ceramics». What appears is:

"To repair ceramics, adhesives or fillers, such as epoxy, can be used to join fragments. First, clean and dry the surfaces. Then apply the adhesive and carefully join the pieces, removing any excess. For more decorative repairs, the Japanese technique of Kintsugi is used, which joins broken pieces with lacquer and gold dust, and to repair worn tile joints, you can..."

—Phew, thank goodness —she sighs with relief. Did she think she could get rid of me that easily? I may be made of ceramic, but there's much more to me than clay and silica.

After spending hours watching tutorials on YouTube and before-and-after Reels, she couldn't help but think that gluing me back together to leave me exactly as I was would be boring. She wanted to transform me into something she herself could be a part of. This was the first decision she had made in all this time.

In order to carry out the Kintsugi technique, she first needed to go out and buy the materials. Searching on Maps, she found a craft and fine arts store a few blocks from her house. She grabbed her Marc Jacobs tote bag, her Smiley raincoat, and headed down the street.

When she opened the shop door, the wind chime rang and the shop assistant came out of the storeroom.

—Hello! Welcome to Masumi. If there's anything I can help you with, I'm right here —said the lady, smiling broadly from behind the counter.

—Good afternoon. Thank you very much. I was just about to ask you. I'm looking for epoxy glue, Urushi lacquer and gold dust. Do you sell those here? —Ridia asked, reading the note on her iPhone.

—Kintsugi materials? Of course! We have everything you need and also offer introductory courses on the technique. Is this your first time? We're starting a new workshop this afternoon. You're just in time if you want to join —she said, noticing that Ridia was reading the materials on her phone and looking a little out of place.

—Well, yes, ha ha ha! Is it that obvious? I dropped a piece of pottery that means a lot to me this morning, and I didn't want to part with it just yet. I don't know if it's necessary to take a course just for one time, is it? —Ridia said, trying to avoid having to attend the workshop without seeming rude by refusing.

—Would you risk using the most expensive ingredients to cook a recipe for the first time without having tried cheaper ones first? I think it would be a good idea for you to try it with other pieces before tackling the one that really matters to you. Besides, the three sessions would only cost 10 yen when you buy the materials. Not bad, right? —the lady is insistent because she really believes that Ridia needs it.

After just ten minutes with her, the lady has already noticed that she lives in isolation, that she doesn't socialize regularly, that she is stuck. And if there is one thing that the Kintsugi philosophy is known for, it's accepting difficult moments and viewing them as an opportunity for rebirth and growth.

—All right, fine. What time would it start? —Ridia didn't have the strength to refuse after such a speech.

—Today's session is from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., in just three hours. If you'd like to, you can leave your things here and pay when you come back to collect them up after the class —she suggests, so as not to overwhelm Ridia by making her pay in advance.

—Okay, sounds good. I'll be back in a little while then. See you later —she says, slinging the empty tote bag over her shoulder and heading for the door.

By the time she left the art shop, the rain had stopped and the sun was beginning to peek through the dissipating clouds. Ridia considered going home, but when she turned the corner, she changed her mind. It's a nice day. It's Saturday. I have three hours free until eight o'clock and no plans. Why not take a walk in the park and enjoy some of the scarce sunshine we get in winter? She turned around and headed for Sakuraikoi Square.

As it is out of season for tourists, there is hardly anyone in the park except neighbours walking their pets. She feels at peace. She sits on a bench facing the square, staring at the bare trees and watching their thin branches move slightly in the wind and the shadows they cast on the ground when the sun shines through them.

In the blink of an eye, it's already 7:30 p.m. Although the shop is relatively close, she decides it's time to get going. She gets up from the bench feeling very different from how she felt when she woke up that morning, and, with excitement practically sparkling in her eyes, she sets off for her first Kintsugi class. I can't remember the last time she felt this excited. I'm so happy to see her like this!

When she reached the door, she saw that there were already four people waiting inside. They must be her workshop colleagues. They all looked different from each other and none of them seemed to be the same age. In fact, she could have sworn they were all from different countries. She was curious how such different people could be united by the same goal or be seeking the same answers.

—Hi. Welcome back. I'm so glad you've decided to join us! Come, let me introduce you to the others —says the shop assistant, turning to invite her to the back of the shop, where the workshop for the courses is located.

—Hello, everyone. Nice to meet you all —she says, approaching them.

—This is Mike and Claudia, they've been coming for a couple of years now. And these are Ayo and Yuki, they joined recently. And this is... Oh, sorry I didn't ask your name earlier. What's yours? —she pauses to let her introduce herself.

—I'm Lidia, but you can call me Ridia. I've been in Tokyo for just under a year —she introduces herself, remembering how long she has been in this city.

—Welcome, Ridia —they all say in unison.

During that same session, they gave a brief introduction to the technique and the philosophy behind Kintsugi so that Ridia could keep up with the others. Shortly afterwards, they started working with pieces that had been broken beforehand. For each crack they repaired, they took turns to tell a story about overcoming adversity or grief that they had experienced in their lives. They did not judge each other during the process; they simply listened to each other's stories, allowing themselves to experience that pain and transform it into something collective. They laid bare their greatest fears and mistakes, valued the process, and were grateful for the changes that had brought them there.

Today was the last session of the workshop, and it was finally her turn to open up. Until now, Ridia had only listened to the others, but today it was her turn to open up. The teacher-shop assistant let her wait until it was her turn to rebuild her own object, giving her time to familiarise herself with the process without forcing her in her early days.

In this session, I saw her as strong, committed and supported — even happy. She told them about her ex, and how difficult it had been for her to leave her country and her people. She even mentioned the last three months of feeling blocked and how she lost Andoresu, her agent. Until that day, I had never heard her talk about it.

When I felt whole again, when I felt that all my pieces had fallen into place, albeit differently, I suddenly saw the fog of the last few months disappear from her eyes. I saw them shine brightly again, reminding me of the day she first took me into her arms.

When she arrived home that evening, she switched on her MacBook and created a new Google Doc titled “Beauty is in the Cracks”.