That June, I spent eight days travelling solo in Tokyo. Perhaps it was because I was an only child, but travelling alone turned out to be easier than I’d imagined. There’s a certain exhilaration that comes with dragging your suitcase through the airport, not just for the promise of a journey, but for the sense of freedom it brings.
He told me he loved Tokyo too and asked me to send him photos. I shared pictures of the beaches in Kamakura, the chapel in Karuizawa, Senso-ji Temple, Daikanyama, and countless other little places I found intriguing. He responded with messages that always carried a hint of envy, laced with admiration.
One evening in Tokyo, he confessed to feeling restless. The results for his semester were about to be released, and they would determine whether he could enrol in the law diploma programme—the first step toward becoming a lawyer. I told him not to worry and promised to make a wish for him at Senso-ji Temple.
Senso-ji at night was serene. The lanterns of the temple glowed warmly, and the shopfronts along the path were shuttered. The walk to the main hall felt shorter than usual, yet time seemed to stretch endlessly, as though the temple held another dimension hidden just beyond the altar.
At midnight, he called. He’d just received his results—they were just enough to pass. He was ecstatic, laughing and shouting, his relief palpable even through the phone. After catching his breath, he calmly said, “Thank you.”
It was the first time he’d called me, and, as far as I remember, the first time we truly spoke. His voice was deeper than I’d imagined. I don’t recall exactly what I said in response, likely congratulations mingled with shared laughter.
That night, we continued chatting via text until the early hours. Perhaps it was the weight lifted from his shoulders, but our conversation flowed lighter than usual.
He asked, “Do you have any quirks?”
"Maybe not quirks, but plenty of bad habits," I replied.
"Like what?"
"I don’t like drinking water."
"That’s so unhealthy! But… same," he admitted.
"When I was younger, I liked to eat McDonald’s ketchup packets. I’d tear them open and suck the ketchup straight out."
"Kindred spirits! Condensed milk is also great for that."
"I love condensed milk too."
"Serious question: chunky or smooth peanut butter?"
"Smooth, of course. It’s so much better."
"Finally, someone who gets it! I’ve never understood why people like chunky.”
We spent the next hour discussing cult films and another talking about music, our tastes aligning so seamlessly it felt uncanny.
By the time we realised it, dawn had arrived. He said he might as well stay up and make breakfast. He cooked miso soup, rice, and a few side dishes. I teased him for such an elaborate spread, and he replied, “Since you’re in Japan, I figured I’d have a Japanese breakfast too.”
Those eight days and seven nights in Tokyo, though spent physically alone, never truly felt solitary. On the other end of the phone, I was constantly connected to someone who felt present despite the distance. It was almost as though I wasn’t travelling solo, but with an invisible companion. He reminded me of Samantha from Her—a voice that was intangible yet profoundly genuine. I’d forgotten what he looked like six years ago, and I didn’t care what he looked like now. Though our lives had occasionally intersected—we’d shared the same social circles and even attended the same university—we’d hardly interacted. Yet somehow, he felt closer to my soul than anyone else.
Theodore: “What are you doing?”
Samantha: “I’m just sitting here, looking at the world and writing a new piece of music.”
Theodore: “Can I hear it? What’s this one about?”
Samantha: “Well, I was thinking, we don’t really have any photographs of us. And I thought this song could be like a photo that captures us in this moment in our life together.”
Theodore: “Aw, I like our photograph. I can see you in it.”
Samantha: “I am.”
Later, he sent me a recording of himself playing and singing Coldplay’s Parachutes. His guitar strumming was gentle, his voice soft and sincere, carrying a faint resemblance to Chris Martin’s. I told him he sang beautifully. He downplayed it, saying, “The song is only forty seconds long. Short songs are easier to get right.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hinting at something.
"In a haze, a stormy haze
I’ll be round, I’ll be loving you always, always
Here I am and I’ll take my time
Here I am and I’ll wait in line always
Always.”
