Emails I wrote on October 8th and 11th 2024, but never sent.

October 8th, 2024

Dear Di,

I’m writing this from the balcony of my guesthouse in Tokyo. Well, actually, rather than a balcony it’s more of a laundry-drying area on the third floor that the manager lets the guests use. It’s almost 10 PM here, and I’m looking at a tall building across the way, its crown sparkling with white and blue-ish lights. To my left, I can hear the rhythmic buzz of trains moving through the night, that particular Tokyo sound that never quite stops.

I feel like an alien here. Like that jazz song you love: “Englishman in New York”, except I’m some lost soul in Tokyo. Maybe it’s because I don’t speak the language and can’t read most of the signs. Or maybe it’s just because I miss you so dearly.

Earlier tonight, I walked to the konbini to grab some drinks for me and my friend. On my way back, I stopped in front of a vending machine. I don’t know why I stopped there. I’d already bought what I needed. I just stood there under my umbrella in the light drizzle, staring at it. The white LED light illuminating the rows of drinks inside, all those bottles and cans lined up so perfectly. I stood there with empty eyes, letting the rain patter on the umbrella, and I thought about you.

I missed you. I miss you.

I wish I was drunk right now. So I’d have the courage to actually send you this letter.

But no. I am completely sober.

I’m drinking a banana milk I picked up from the konbini and lit a cigarette even though I’m trying to quit. The smoke curls up and disappears into thin air. The early autumn air is sharp and cold in a way that makes me feel awake, almost painfully present.

The cold breeze bites at my hands as I type this on my phone. I should go inside, but I don’t want to. Not yet. I haven’t finished my drink, haven’t finished my cig. And certainly I haven’t finished thinking about you.

Sat.

October 11th, 2024

Nadine,

Today I visited temples and shrines around Kamakura. I watched the locals do some praying ritual, and I eventually did the praying ritual myself. In one of the praying, I prayed for you.

I asked that you be safe, that you be happy, that life treats you gently.

I don’t even know who I was talking to. The Kami-sama of that particular shrine? Or some other ancient deity? Would a Japanese god even grant a prayer for someone in a different country, over five thousand kilometers away?

I don’t know. But in that moment, it felt natural to slip your name into my prayer.

Afterward, I sat on the beach for a long time, just staring at the water. The waves coming in, going out. People walking by with their families, their friends, their dogs.

I haven’t sent the last email I wrote to you. Maybe I never will. I don’t know.

I remember one time you encouraged me to write you a letter. A real one, you said. One where I pour my heart out, where I don’t hold back. You told me I had a passion for writing but that I always kept it lowkey, never felt confident enough to show my work to anyone. If I’m being honest, I hated the idea. I hate pouring my heart out, hate being that vulnerable. And you knew that about me.

But you were also the one who encouraged me to lower my guard. To try, even if it scared me.

I never actually told you this, but you’re one of the only people I’ve ever felt truly comfortable being vulnerable with. You didn’t even have to ask. It just happened. Around you, the walls came down without me noticing.

So here I am, sitting on a beach on the other side of the world, finally writing you that letter. The one you asked for. Except you’re not here to read it, and I don’t know if I’ll ever send it.

I meant to buy you an omamori today. One of those protective charms they sell at the shrines. Something to keep you safe, or maybe just a keepsake to remember this trip by. But I walked right past them. I forgot.

Maybe that’s fitting. I always seem to forget the important things until it’s too late.

The sun is setting now. The sky is bleeding pink into orange across the horizon. It’s beautiful. I wish you were here to see it.

Sat.