Foreign and Falling

Emi

The city made my shoulders hurt.

Too much tension from standing still, too many bodies pressing into me, too many announcements in all directions. I missed the silence of Miyama. The slow, reliable rhythm of birdsong and gravel under shoes. I missed the way my grandmother hummed while she cooked and the sound of my grandfather softly clearing his throat before he spoke. In Tokyo, every sound was an interruption. Even my thoughts.

At home, I loved walking late at night between the empty rice fields, where the only sounds were frogs and wind brushing through the tall grass. I'd bring a small notebook and write poems I never showed anyone. Haikus about clouds, silly rhymes about moths, or quiet musings about the stars. It was the only time I felt completely myself—not a caretaker, not a digital artist quietly working from home, not a disappointment for staying behind. Just Emi, barefoot on the dirt path, whispering verses to the moon.

I sat by the train window, arms curled around my bag like a pillow. The train hummed underneath me, fast but smooth, rushing south toward Kyoto. I had transferred without much trouble, and the seats were nearly full now. A woman next to me looked up from her phone and said, in a soft Kansai accent, "Looks like we just beat the storm."

I nodded politely, smiling, but didn't say anything. I wasn't good with small talk—especially not with strangers. I always worried I would say something wrong, or not say anything at all. I used to rehearse little conversations in my head before school as a girl, only to lose my voice the moment someone actually spoke to me.

Even now, I sometimes practiced greetings under my breath when I went into town. I always felt clumsy when I had to talk to new people. Like my words were made of glass, too fragile to hand over without cracking.

So I smiled. Because it was easier. Because it was safe.

The sky outside was already darkening, streaks of gray crawling in from the east. I liked storms, but not in the city. At home, they made the mountains feel alive. Here, they just made everything feel anxious.

I didn't like the city. I never had. I felt too small here, like a single pebble on a vast, churning beach. In Miyama, I could walk down the street and know every voice, every laugh, every squeaky bicycle tire. Here, I was no one. Just a body among bodies.

My grandmother always said I had an old soul. I believed her. I liked folding laundry by hand. I liked cooking slow meals and grinding tea leaves with a mortar and pestle. I liked quiet mornings and soft light. I liked watching my grandfather mend tools in the shed, humming as he worked. I liked when my grandmother touched my hair gently while I read at the kitchen table. I loved them more than anyone in the world. They had raised me after the accident. After the phone call that changed everything.

I was five when my parents died. A car accident on a foggy morning. They were supposed to come home that afternoon. My mother had made egg salad and left it in the fridge. I couldn't eat it after. I couldn't even open the container.

The funeral was small. My grandparents took me in. I moved from Kyoto to Miyama overnight. I had to leave my school, my friends, my bedroom full of little pink trinkets and stuffed animals. But they made space for me, even when I was angry. Even when I cried so hard I couldn't breathe.

I owed them everything.

So when people asked why I never left, why I hadn't gone to Tokyo or Osaka or abroad like other girls my age, I always smiled and said I liked the mountains. But the truth was simpler: I stayed because they needed me. And because I needed them, too.

This trip to Tokyo had felt strange from the beginning. I was excited, at first. A few days with an old friend from university. She was confident, clever, everything I wasn't. I admired her, but she made me nervous. She wore high heels and red lipstick and made jokes in English with the waiter. I trailed behind her like a child, unsure of what to say.

She told me I was too quiet. Too soft. She said I needed to grow up.

But I didn't want to grow out of who I was.

And then I got lost. I thought I knew Tokyo Station well enough. But the signs blurred together, and the colors made no sense, and the people didn't look up when they bumped into me. I ended up standing in the middle of a crowd, clutching my tote bag like a lifeline. My heart raced. I didn't want to cry, not in public, not again. But my vision blurred and I felt the familiar burn at the corners of my eyes.

Then he appeared.

Tall. Pale. Glasses. Curly brown hair. A little awkward, but gentle. He spoke slowly, kindly, like someone who knew what it was like to feel stupid. His Japanese was clumsy—if not completely incoherent—but he tried. And somehow, I let him try.

He waited with me. No one does that in Tokyo. Everyone is always rushing, always late. But he stayed.

And when I stepped onto the train, I said his name.

Adam.

I didn't expect to remember it. But it stayed in my mouth like a warm word. Soft. Simple.

I didn't say much to him. I was afraid of my English. I barely knew anything beyond what I had learned in school. And I hated sounding foolish. So I kept quiet.

But he looked at me like I was worth waiting for. Worth noticing. Like I wasn't just part of the crowd.

I leaned my head against the train window now, watching the fields blur by. We were already near Kyoto. I would take a bus the rest of the way to Miyama. Then I would go home. Sweep the porch. Cook rice. Feed the cat.

And maybe everything would feel normal again.

But something in me felt different.

Not changed, exactly. But stirred. Like someone had opened a window inside me and let the wind in.

I didn't know if I would ever see him again. I told myself it didn't matter.

But part of me hoped it did.