The ethics of Noa's life are … complicated.
I often wonder how he reconciles with it.
It's become one of the main themes of this story.
.
"Chichiue would say sometimes, 'You're going to have to face reality.' Hahaue would look him in the face, looking grim and serious but also kind of pitying, like she couldn't believe the man she married could be so stupid, and she would say, 'What reality must I face? Be specific.'"
Ryo chuckled. "Naturally, your father meant to impress on her that she didn't understand the real world or whatever, and one day it would come back to bite her."
"Undoubtedly," said Noa, "but more to the point, I think it was Chichiue trying to tell his stubborn-ass wife that the world wasn't going to ever match up to whatever she thought it should be. Her beliefs were too pie-in-the-sky, and he wasn't going to help her indulge in fantasies. But Hahaue would always force him to be particular about what he was mad about, because most of the time there was a simple solution to whatever it was she wanted to do; Chichiue just didn't want to admit it."
"If I didn't know better," Ryo said, "I would think your parents didn't have a very healthy marriage."
"Honestly," Noa said, "I don't know what a healthy marriage even looks like, because . . . I want to agree with you, but every memory I have of them together, whether they were arguing or not—and they argued; oh, they argued, all the damn time—was a united front in complete control of the situation, no matter what it was." He shrugged. "I don't think they loved each other. I don't think they ever intended to love each other. But they were partners. They were ironclad."
"Until you . . . died."
Noa nodded. "Yeah. Then, suddenly, it was Chichiue who couldn't face reality. Suddenly, it was Hahaue trying to force him to accept the real world. I was dead, I was gone, and thinking he would be the first man in all the billions to have ever lived that could circumvent that . . . it wasn't just arrogance. It was something deeper, more profane, more . . . disgusting than that."
"And yet," Ryo said, "here you are."
"And yet," Noa agreed, "here I am." He nodded, distractedly. "Hahaue was right to think he couldn't do it. Really, he couldn't. He didn't. Aniki did. But she was still . . . wrong. To think I couldn't survive. It's hard to reconcile that. Am I angry with her? Do I grieve the fact that she gave up on me, even though she had every right to?"
Ryo reached out and put a hand on Noa's arm; he often did this, knowing that Noa was a tactile person and sometimes he needed to be reminded that he took up physical space. "I don't know what you should feel," Ryo said, "but I know you should feel it. Whatever it is. Let yourself experience it. Even if you don't like it, even if it hurts, even if you think you're going to drown in it. You have to let yourself feel it."
Noa frowned. "You sound like you're speaking from personal experience."
Ryo offered a sad little smile. "I am," he said. "You need to let yourself sink into the depths at least once, or you'll never be able to climb out. You need to let yourself feel it all at least once, so you know how deep the hole goes. Otherwise, you'll fear it too much to do anything against it."