“So… what exactly is ‘wholesome’?”
The screenwriter frowned, as if faced with a philosophical riddle.

“Everyday stuff, maybe?” The art lead was sketching bunny breakfasts on her iPad.

“Wholesomeness comes from daily life——like brushing teeth together, grocery shopping, clipping nails…”

“Wait, clipping nails?” The director cut in.

“Is your idea of love a veterinary drama?”

“You don’t get it. Bunny claws are sharp. Nail clipping is a symbol of trust.”

The manager, eyes on his laptop, spoke flatly.
“The boss asked for romance, not animal training.”

“Okay, let me try again,” the screenwriter raised a hand.

“Daily life equals wholesome. So what about soul-stirring?”

“Usually requires separation—death, amnesia, car crash, bomb, time warp, betrayal…”

“The boss said to keep it sweet,” the director reminded.

“So… we hit them with a deadly blow before the sweetness?”

Deadpan, the screenwriter continued:
“Tragedy in the last life, sugar in the next. That work?”

Three seconds of silence.

“…Kinda works.” The art lead lowered her stylus.

“I got it!” The director’s eyes lit up.

“Classic angst-then-sugar arc!”

“It’s both soul-stirring and wholesome! And reincarnation explains all the plot holes!”

The manager added with surgical precision:
“She died so miserably in her past life, now even the grass grows extra lush just for her.”

“…I see it.” The screenwriter started pounding the keyboard.

“What if they slowly start remembering their past lives?” the art lead suggested.

“Maybe—but not everything.”
“Too much memory, too much pain. Too little, no flavor.”
The director chimed in.

“Or just have one remember, one forget?”

The manager nodded. “She tries to hold back her feelings, but something keeps pulling her in.”

“Then throw in a twist——like, she forgot it was his fault she died.”

Everyone stopped.

“…You hearing yourself?”
The screenwriter turned to the art lead, face full of ‘I know a good therapist if you need one.’

“Isn’t that, like… soul-stirring and wholesome?”

“…I’m logging this meeting as a permanent record.”

The manager renamed the document:
“Sugar and Suffering: Boundary Testing Report.”

When the meeting ended, no one clapped.
No one laughed either.

Only the air was filled with a strange, accidental sense of achievement.

The manager closed her laptop and raised a question.
“So… does this mean we have a script?”

“…I don’t know if it qualifies as a script,” the director said, rubbing his temples.
“But at least we’ve got a full-fledged romance.”

“There’s a past, a present, a secret, a hook—plus a bunny.”

“And a human,” the screenwriter added.

“And that cursed ‘no sexy stuff’ rule,” the art lead muttered.

The director took a deep breath and sent off the freshly organized pitch deck.

A few seconds later, the boss replied with a voice message.

The moment it played, the whole meeting room was shaken to the ceiling by a screeching wail.

“Waaahhh!! THIS!! This is the love I’ve been crying for!!”
“Awoooo!! MY SHIP——AAAHHHHHHH!!”

Phone down, body limp against the chair, the director’s face carried the expression of someone who had just reincarnated three times.

“We made it,” he said.

The manager nodded.
“Time to move on to casting.”

“Give me two more days. I can write this.”
The screenwriter shut the laptop.

“I’m buying a new pen.” The art lead pulled out her color swatches.

And so, from the chaos and wailing, a script was born.

Not because it made perfect sense,
Not because the budget made it feasible,
But because——

Someone truly loved that story.