Shiyam had never felt so awake in his entire life.
Even though he hadn't slept more than two hours on the ten-hour flight, even though the airplane coffee had left a weird aftertaste in his mouth, even though his neck was still sore from dozing off on a hard plastic tray table—his eyes refused to blink.
They were too busy soaking it all in.
The Narita airport bustled like a living machine—efficient, polite, and strangely quiet despite the number of people moving through it. Overhead, electronic announcements in crisp Japanese echoed across the terminal, alternating between robotic tones and soothing jingles. Blinking katakana signs pointed towards customs, luggage carousels, and toilets. Floors so clean they reflected light like water stretched endlessly in all directions.
It wasn't just another country.
It was Japan.
The land of anime, samurai, ramen stalls, high-speed trains, and vending machines that sold anything from drinks to neckties. It was the birthplace of the stories that had raised him.
And for Shiyam, this was no vacation—it was a pilgrimage. A dream fifteen years in the making, built on shaky Wi-Fi and grainy Naruto episodes that often buffered mid-fight. Growing up in Chennai, anime had been more than just entertainment, it was an escape hatch. A place where losers became heroes, friendship meant power, and dreams didn't die quietly.
No one else in his class had cared much for anime. He remembered being the weird kid in the corner, sketching Straw Hat Luffy next to Tamil quotes in his school notebook margins. But it never mattered. The characters in those shows didn't laugh at him, they were him. Determined. Awkward. Dreamers.
And now, he was here.
Not for business. Not for studies.
Just a one-week trip with four friends, all bonded by the same childhood obsession, to walk the same streets, to eat the same food, and feel for once like they belonged in the world they'd only seen through a screen.
---
The first night passed in a blur.
They landed at Narita. Bought train passes. Made their way through an endless labyrinth of underground stations, blinking ticket machines, and color-coded maps that made the Delhi Metro look like a toy train.
Tokyo was like someone had crammed ten cities into one and painted it in neon.
Billboards blinked anime girls in school uniforms. Speakers outside shops played lo-fi remixes of 90s J-pop. Vending machines lined alleyways like quiet sentinels, glowing in blue light, offering hot corn soup and Pokémon-themed cola.
The five of them laughed nonstop.
Tired, but giddy.
They got ramen from a vending machine restaurant—yes, an actual vending machine. Insert coin, press button, slurp happiness.
Shiyam barely noticed the tiny hostel they checked into, a narrow five-floor building squished between a manga café and a bar with swaying red lanterns. The lobby smelled like instant miso soup. His room had a creaky bed and a half-sized pillow that looked like someone had forgotten to finish making it. None of that mattered.
What mattered was the window.
And the city outside, still alive at 2 a.m., blinking like it had something to say.
---
The next morning was when everything changed.
They had heard about a local festival near Asakusa—drums, food stalls, yukata, even a parade. It sounded like something straight out of a slice-of-life anime.
They were too excited to stick together.
Rajesh bolted the moment he smelled grilled yakitori. Sano wandered off in search of One Piece-themed merchandise. Karthik wanted to ride the anime-wrapped train he'd seen online. Anand, the quiet one, muttered something about taking aesthetic photos near the lanterns.
Shiyam was supposed to wait near the giant lantern gate—Kaminarimon.
He didn't.
A side alley caught his eye.
There was a shrine at the end, old and moss-covered. Then came a wooden house with paper walls, almost hidden behind a cherry tree, even though it wasn't spring. Then a food stall selling something that looked like samosas—but smelled like sweet soy sauce and miso.
He wandered.
Just for a minute.
---
And then—
He was alone.
The crowd was gone. The sound of taiko drums faded into the distance. Even the colorful paper lanterns seemed fewer here, the streets narrowing like the pages of an unfinished story.
He laughed at first.
Pulled out his phone.
"No worries. I'll call Rajesh."
No signal.
He opened the pocket Wi-Fi.
Battery dead.
"Okay," he muttered nervously. "Okay, Shiyam. Just retrace your steps."
He couldn't.
Tokyo wasn't like Chennai.
There were no nosy aunties to ask directions. No chai stalls with familiar accents. No auto drivers yelling for fares. Here, no one looked up from their phones. No one understood Tamil. When he tried English, most people gave polite, apologetic bows.
By afternoon, the laughter died down.
By evening, it was replaced with quiet exhaustion.
---
He wandered into a quieter part of the neighborhood, stomach rumbling but too tired to be hungry. He bought a cheap sandwich from a 7-Eleven convenience store—egg and mayo, crustless, soft like a sponge—and sat on the sidewalk, unsure if he wanted to eat or cry.
And then—
He saw her.
---
A girl.
Maybe his age.
Long black hair tied into a lazy bun. Wearing a cardigan and jeans. Sitting on the steps of the same 7-Eleven, munching on wasabi chips straight from the bag.
She looked up as he passed.
Their eyes met.
There was no gasp. No romantic music. Just a moment of pure, honest recognition.
He must have looked terrible—sweaty, lost, with dust on his shoes and hopelessness in his posture.
But she smiled.
Kindly. Curiously.
Like she saw him.
Not just a foreigner. Not just someone with the wrong language.
But someone lonely.
A pause.
He walked over. Hesitant. Voice small.
"Uh… do you speak English?"
She blinked. Tilted her head.
Then slowly, apologetically, shook it.
"Eigo… wakaranai," she said gently.
He let out a long sigh. "No Japanese either," he muttered.
She tilted the bag of chips toward him.
Wasabi chips.
An offering.
He laughed. "Okay. Sure."
He sat beside her.
The chip was sharp, spicy, and made his eyes water.
But he smiled through it.
---
For a while, they said nothing. Just shared snacks. Listened to the sound of Tokyo breathing around them—distant cars, jingles from the store speakers, the soft thrum of a vending machine nearby.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was something simpler.
Two people, sitting side by side in a city too big for words.
She pointed at the egg sandwich in his lap and gave a thumbs up.
He offered her half. She took it, nodding in thanks.
Maybe words weren't needed.
Maybe some stories didn't need subtitles.
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