The third time we met, it was at the check-in counter at the airport. (Yes, we were really going to Tokyo together.) Because of his internship, we took a Friday night flight and planned to return on Monday morning. That left us with just forty-eight hours in Tokyo, so we travelled light, carrying only the essentials.
"Copying me again?" he teased from behind, startling me out of my thoughts. I turned to find him wearing a white T-shirt, jeans, and white trainers—exactly what I was wearing.
"I thought you liked vintage and bohemian styles," I replied with a grin.
While waiting for the flight, I opened up to him about the pressures I was facing at home, even sharing one of my family’s biggest secrets. He was visibly tired but listened intently, offering quiet reassurances. “You’ve found a stable job now. Things will get better, slowly but surely. And one day, your family will understand. If not, moving out might be an option too.” I was stubborn by nature, but his words had a way of sticking with me.
I don’t mind red-eye flights. It’s easy for me to sleep. Sharing one pair of earphones, we listened to my sleepy-time playlist as I drifted off. By the time I woke up, we were nearing Tokyo. Despite both of us bringing guidebooks, neither of us had bothered to plan an itinerary.
"How about Asakusa?" he suggested.
The moment we arrived at Asakusa Station, it began to rain. We bought a transparent umbrella and stepped out. “Isn’t this just like Lost in Translation?” he exclaimed, beaming. I’d assumed he wanted to visit Asakusa Shrine to make an offering, but it turned out he simply loved the place. Even amidst the weekend crowds and tourist buzz, he found the shrine beautiful.
I took him to my favourite sukiyaki restaurant, Asakusa Imahan. He ordered an extra plate of beef and cold soba noodles. When the kimono-clad server brought out the food, she looked at me and remarked, surprised, that I must have quite the appetite. He laughed at this, quietly but relentlessly, from across the table.
For dinner, we had tonkatsu at a humble, unassuming spot. He declared it the freshest pork he’d ever tasted, so fresh it left him feeling a twinge of guilt. Over beers, we exchanged stories. This time, it was his turn to share the burdens he carried: his mother’s fragile health, his sister’s dependence on the family while at university, his father’s exhausting work schedule. He admitted that choosing law over the family business had taken a lot of courage.
There’s a theory in psychology that people find it easier to share secrets with strangers, as strangers can neither betray them nor judge them. I couldn’t quite tell if he was opening up to me because I felt familiar or because, in some way, I was still a stranger.
Bob: “Can you keep a secret? I’m trying to organise a prison break. I’m looking for an accomplice. First, we’ll have to escape this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or out?”
Charlotte: “I’m in. I’ll go pack my stuff.”
Bob: “I hope you’ve had enough to drink. It’s going to take courage.”
Our trip felt like a quieter version of Lost in Translation. Not just because of the rain, but because both of us were weighed down by life’s uncertainties, escaping something or someone in our lives. We weren’t searching for answers; we were simply searching. And in finding each other, we found solace. For two days, we shared everything—our thoughts, fears, memories. We laughed, we confided, we forgot the world outside. By the time we returned, those same worries and questions lingered, but they felt lighter. At least for a while.
Of course, I can’t forget Radiohead. That warm summer evening, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, the stage finally lit up. The band appeared on the big screen, and Thom Yorke stepped out amidst a wave of cheers. They played for nearly two hours. When they performed Creep and Let Down, we both cried. We didn’t say much after the concert. We didn’t need to.
Some friends complained about the ending of Lost in Translation—how Bob and Charlotte parted ways without resolving anything. “That’s exactly what makes it so beautiful,” I told them. I wasn’t just talking about the film. I was talking about us.
Two people escaping together will always remind me of Hiding Tonight. The song is languid, warm, and achingly tender—much like how I remember him.
"I’ll know the way back if you know the way.
But if you are, I am quite alright, hiding today."
