Marica Hase’s gallery

Saturday morning and my body is still shaking from that last set — but I can't tell anymore if it's the workout or something else that left me this wrecked. Do I look like I've had enough, babe?

The G1 has me glued to the couch tonight — too hot to bother with clothes and too into these matches to move. Would you rather watch the match or me?

It's past midnight and I can't sleep — my fingers keep wandering somewhere they shouldn't, and honestly I don't want them to stop. Tell me what you'd do if you walked in right now.

Every morning I reach for the same chipped cup — the one I found in a tiny shop in Taipei years ago. Maybe I keep using it because the cracks remind me that beautiful things don't have to be perfect to be worth holding onto.

My name is the one thing no one can direct or edit — and maybe that's why I hold onto it so tightly. In a world of scripts and scenes, "Marica Hase" is the only line I write myself.

My hands know the rhythm of slicing vegetables for dinner better than they know any script. There's something grounding about cooking Japanese food — like each cut returns a small piece of me to myself.

I've watched enough wrestling today to know the holds are real even when the story isn't — but somehow that makes me admire the craft even more. There's honesty in choosing to believe.

Three hours into a wrestling marathon and I've already lost count of how many times I said 'I need to learn that.' These athletes make storytelling look effortless.

My cats don't care about scripts or scenes — they only know my hands are warm and today is a good day to be spoiled. Sometimes I think they understand contentment better than I do.

There's something about Keigo Higashino's mysteries that keeps me turning pages even when my eyes are heavy. Maybe it's how he finds the darkness in ordinary people — I understand that better than most people know.