• The Way Homefamily Our elementary school uniform was quite short half-pants, even in winter. The hour school let out in November was already quite cold. On the platform across from mine, friends were talking animatedly about something. Each time a freight train passed, it drowned out the echoing laughter for me. I stroked the goosebumps above my knees. Few children were heading west. The farther the train went, the sparser the passengers became. At the old station building nearest home, I walked in a zigzag through the oddly wide concourse. The sound of shoes echoed. I caught sight of parents, likely there to meet children who commuted by train, lined up in front of the ticket gates. Almost no one else was there. At the doughnut shop front, a uniformed figure with a randoseru on his back was reflected in the glass. On the other side, a parent and child were stuffing small doughnuts into their mouths. I got off the bus at the usual stop. Through a residential area where I knew no one by sight, I walked along the edge of the sidewalk. Cars hardly ever passed. Inside the randoseru, the pencil case kept bouncing and making a bothersome sound. I named a pattern in the concrete I had newly found. I turned the key. I switched on the living room light. There were still three hours until Mother came home today, too.
• Same, Yet Differentfamily It's already nine. My son shows no sign of minding the hour pressing in. He has spent more than ten minutes choosing which toy to take with him. "Shall we run this train all the way to the front door?" I try, bright as I can manage. No response—apparently I'll need another approach today. On the walk to daycare, we can't even finish the second nursery rhyme. They all sound the same anyway, I think. When my wife told me to split the laundry into three loads, I thought something similar. Light clothes, easily soiled clothes, newborn clothes—that seems to be how she wants them separated. I start to ask why, then stop. It was more complaint than question. Maybe it showed on my face. On my own, one load of laundry was enough. After we moved in together, it became two; once we had our son, three. Things I can't tell apart keep multiplying in daily life. I haven't made peace with all of it. Still, my mouth softens a little even as I struggle. I remember my wife wearing that kind of face too. She may feel the same. After I started the third load, I sat down beside my son. "Which one would you like?" This time we hesitate together.
• A Memory, Eventuallybusiness I lost fifteen kilograms in six months. I was quite resolved. That is how I usually start on a grand scale. I get the right tools, take it on, and log progress in detail every day. Yet in about five years, much of the weight had come back. Oddly, I have been keeping a diary for about ten years. I cannot remember what set it off. Leather planners, ordinary notebooks, apps, GitHub. I changed where I write many times, and each time I stopped reading old entries. Some days two lines are enough; some days I write about the day before yesterday. As habits go, it does not look very polished. Even so, continuing like this, I began looking for words in the back of my mind no matter what I was doing. Joy and confusion alike—I poke at them asking what is going on. Even without a notebook, I could no longer leave things vague. The weight loss I started with such resolve became an accomplishment I remember. The diary I kept awkwardly became not a stack of notebooks but a disposition to put things into words. What was changing me was inertia.
• The Story We Bringfamily As an elementary-school kid, I did not see what was fun about "Hajimete no Otsukai" (My First Errand). As an adult, tears come when I watch some other child on an errand. "You tear up more easily as you age" turned out to be true. At Koshien, though, my heart does not move much. Apparently I did not become someone who can empathize with everything. Of course. I only started to be moved by "My First Errand" after my first son was born. I have almost no connection to Koshien. If I had at least poured myself into sports, it would have been quite different. Or if I had once cheered for a relay in earnest, I might have found a feeling I could dig up and say, "that's how I felt then." When you have a story of your own, it is easier to reach toward someone else's. Conversely, with a story too far away, "that's amazing" does not lead anywhere further. Not only empathy—you miss even the trigger that would make you want to know what comes next. What will ten years from now look like? The stories I will lean in wanting to hear will only grow, depending on what I come to love, what I will regret, and who I will cheer for. Tomorrow I want to listen to stories with brighter eyes.
• The Name on the Platetechnology Looking at the potato salad I had bought to add to dinner, my wife fried bacon until it was crisp and laid it on top. "Pretty nice, right?" she said, pleased with herself. After a taste, she added grated cheese too. I admired her knack for ideas and was surprised she'd even taken out a frying pan. Already a proper serving. Surely it would have been good as is. Ready-made and deli dishes are often well made. Just moving them to a plate can feel like they've earned their place. Even so, my wife paused before bringing it to the table. Is this fine as is, or is there room to do something? This time she decided to add a touch. When you rely on what someone else prepared, you save labor, and dishes you couldn't manage alone line the table. Even so, once you add something to the menu, it's already your cooking. Deli food you've only transferred to a plate is no different. When your tongue is satisfied, that's "okay, done." Every plate set on the table already bears your name.
• Glad You're Herefamily My second son was born. A little bigger than my first had been. The newborn I lifted for the first time in a while—his body was soft and light, yet from it a warmth seeped deep and heavy into my chest. Trying to tell relatives and friends how glad I was that our family had grown, I stalled for a moment on the words. "So happy." Nothing more followed. I do not seem to have much vocabulary for happiness. I have used a lot of words for things that do not go well. I have lined up difficult compounds until the screen goes black, and learned plenty of katakana too. Somehow, naming what hurts makes it a little easier to handle. Happy things, on the other hand, are sloppy. Laugh and shout, and that was enough. I never even needed to tell "fun" from "glad." Either one, as it was, gave me no trouble. I thought a little longer, and put into words how it felt to hold my second son.
• Nobody Said Thattechnology A remarkably convenient cooking appliance has arrived. Toss in the ingredients, press a button, and it's done. No recipe, no adjusting the heat. It's been a star in our kitchen too. But when people go so far as to say "cooks and restaurants are finished," something stirs in my chest. Menu planning, prep work—there's still plenty left. If anything, the more convenient things get, the more skilled practitioners move a step ahead. They refine what they never had time for before, and the gap widens. When the base broadens, the distance to the summit grows. Nobody asked, yet I feel myself getting worked up, wanting to push back. No, no, that's not right—I tug at their sleeve. Honestly, it's not even worth making a fuss over. More people standing in the kitchen means more good food gets made. The person who threw out those words will probably still visit their favorite spot on the weekend. And still I can't let it go. Sooner or later it'll be my turn. I'm bracing for words that haven't been thrown at me yet.
• Before It Ringsbusiness "Thank you for your continued patronage." Another sales call. A bad feeling hits before I even hear the first words. I hang up carefully, not wanting to be rude, then let out a small sigh. Right after, my phone rings again. It's a friend I'm having drinks with next week. He rarely calls. My mouth loosens and I flip the switch. Apparently conversations have a scent even before you begin to speak. Even with people you're close to, not every call carries a good scent. When I call someone, would they smile like this? They might have been working on something else a moment ago. They might have just started the dishes. And suddenly my errand appears. No—come to think of it, his call was sudden too. Only he had something to go on. The scent had been there since yesterday's LINE message.
• The Round Doorknobfamily Someone was being warned: "Once you get older, you won't be able to change anymore." The message seemed to be: change while you still can. Out of the corner of my eye I think, some corners are better left intact. Chase ought-to-be logic and shave off corner after corner, and what you finish with is a mass-produced thing. That would be a waste. And it's not as if the other person will thank you for it. Mostly, not changing feels more natural. Useful things accumulate, and you gain a sense of grip. Whatever comes next, you'll probably manage somehow. And so the restlessness settles. It's not that I've become stubborn, or that no one warns me anymore. I've built up enough to keep going without changing. I already have a proper place to be. Continuing to change is neither admirable nor necessarily right. I remember the disorientation when I started setting my hair with wax. I went to school still unsure what a cool haircut even was. The first time I said "watashi" in customer service, I was gripped by the fear that I'd left my real self behind. Attempts like that usually left embarrassment behind. If you really want to keep changing on purpose, you have only one option: walk out the front door bewildered, like back then.
• A Fight That's Done Its Jobfamily They say a bullseye is the black circle at the center of a target. When someone hits a sore spot I was only half aware of, I usually get irritated. The feeling is not unlike "I was just about to"—it has not changed much since I was a child. I have only stopped saying it out loud. When things go well, I can even get to "Ah, sorry." Everyone grows up, more or less. I cannot always tell where that prickly feeling comes from. I end up fighting without knowing why I am angry. I say, "No, that's not what I mean," but I do not really know what I mean either. With a face that looks constructive, I line up arguments that miss the mark. When the blood finally drains from my head, I realize it was probably a bullseye after all. This time I start with "At least watch your tone," or something like it. I feel awkward. I deliberately keep going a fight that has already finished its job. I make someone who could have stayed quiet take on my emotional outlet as well. I lean on them for everything. I think we had a fight like that yesterday too.
• Conditions for a Protagonistbusiness I can't stop wondering about people's motives. Why they left the company. Why they've kept up that hobby for eight years now. I'm drawn less to the reason they tell me than to something a little deeper inside. Something that had been piling up inside them long before it turned into words or action. Desire, wounds, longing—the richest part—I go looking, on my own. The deeper I dig, the farther I drift from what they said at first. They often don't understand it themselves either. From there on, it's mostly guesswork. And still I pick up at the edges of their words, fill the gaps between lines with meaning, and—sometimes layering fantasy on top—wear a knowing look as if to say, "It must be something like this." When it comes to myself, I suddenly understand nothing. Small triggers piled up, and before I knew it I was here. Maybe that's all it was. It seems I'm trying to cobble together a grand reason anyway. Maybe I'm looking for a story where I could be the protagonist, driven hard by something.
• How You Felt Just Nowfamily "You said so," I sigh at my son. He said he wanted A, so I made A, and then B was what he wanted. I made B again, and then it had to be A. With a son who comes to a boil in an instant, I sometimes end up reacting emotionally. He has only just begun to string short words together. Even trying to talk it through calmly, there were times he could not meet me. I felt guilty that my response to him shifted with how much room I had. At some point I noticed this was not only at the table with my son. I have given a doubtful look to someone who turned sour, or bristled when a sore spot was hit. Even without raising my voice or using force, it was clear I was not calm. For now I am treating this as enough, if I can say "thank you" and "I'm sorry". Settling my heart at once was still hard. So after a pause, I began with thanks. That I am grateful to you. That I am sorry I got emotional over a small thing. That I want you to tell me how you felt just now. After the next sigh, I want us to be closer.
• A Bustling New Yearfamily By the later years of elementary school, visits with relatives had almost stopped. No real reason. I just noticed that even at New Year we no longer went back and forth. At the time I thought, "That's just how it is." The only thing I marked was that the New Year money envelopes had grown fewer. Being able to spend the days quietly, at my own pace, even felt convenient. Caring how I looked, and not being good with words, may have played a part. Anyway, I felt I could not carry myself well in front of people. More than having few people to laugh with, I hated being made to see my own inadequacy. Stock stories, or playing the flatterer, were the only ways I knew to hold a room. After I married, the relatives started up again. My wife's family were all their own people. Each was respected, and when they clashed they accepted one another again. If you missed a step, no one held it for long. There was not the slightest need to put on a front. The liveliness of sharing even the trouble felt good.
• If I Could Sit Besidefamily If the others were laughing, I did not have to join them. Watching them play excited me more than making noise with the other children. I especially liked watching adults. I always listened for their secrets, pretending I was not interested. Around the time I was about to start elementary school, I noticed how odd I looked. A boy who only stood a little apart and smiled—I felt I was making friends and adults uneasy. As a kind of play, I tried copying everyone. The adults all praised me, so I kept at it for a while because it was fun. By third grade, copying alone was no longer enough to keep the people around me at ease. Every time I looked for a "myself" that was not there, I ran into someone. I became "the child who used to be obedient." As an adult, I too put on a knowing face and lecture people. When I threw that praise, I did not notice the other person's confusion. After the disappointment, it did not occur to me that the hope I had placed on them had left their own hope behind. The child who only wanted someone to sit beside him and say "This is fun too" had become an adult who puts meaning on things from a distance.
• Going With Thisbusiness "Are you committed to making this work?" I was asked, and I had nothing to say. In my mid-twenties, every time I showed my boss work I'd been given, something got corrected. Knowledge and experience were on his side. I thought that's how you learn to judge, bit by bit. The idea that I would decide "this is it" had never occurred to me. The next year I was given a team of six. I explained the background and the goal. Still, the proposals that came back were slightly off. I tried more check-ins. Not much changed. Once she said, "I thought you would judge whether it would produce results, Shohei." My boss's face from that day came back. If she decided "this is it," a miss was fine. In the time we had, I would let her try many things. I had told her so—or so I believed. Only the yardstick was still in my hand.