It's been 15 years since we got married, so I think I'll go on a honeymoon.

I am sane.
It has been 15 years since we got married. I think I'll go on a honeymoon.

I am fully aware that the definition of "newlywed" has collapsed, but I still want to name this event, 15 years in the making, a "honeymoon." Our destination is Vienna & Prague. It will be the first time my husband and I travel abroad together.

15 years ago, after our wedding ceremony, I don't remember the concept of a "honeymoon" ever crossing our minds. I've forgotten whether it was because we had no money or no interest, but one thing is certain: back then, traveling abroad was not a realistic option for us.

I will never forget it: inside the box he popped open at Saizeriya sat an engagement ring chosen by a man who was likely unaccustomed to buying such things. I swallowed the words "Now?" that were about to spill from my throat along with my Diavola-style hamburger. There seems to be a recurring debate online about whether Saizeriya is appropriate for a first date, but what about for a proposal? If this goes viral, my husband would be too pitiful, so I have no choice but to keep it a secret with all my might, but it's funny, so I said it anyway. I suppose it's fine if the person involved says it. A proposal at Saizeriya—it's a yes.

Thinking back, perhaps our married life started like playing house. In the first apartment where we, who got engaged at Saizeriya, started living together, the refrigerator and washing machine our parents gave us seemed to support our lives with a worried "Will they be okay?" When we brought friends over and chatted until late at night, just like we did in our student days, the lady downstairs scolded us harshly, saying, "You're too loud!" By the time I grew tired of living a quiet life, tiptoeing around while half-crying, I drifted off to Tokyo for a job transfer. For two years after that, I left him all alone. Marriage didn't become a shackle of any kind.

For 15 years, we kept saying that nothing about us had changed. Was that really the right thing to say? Hadn't we just lost the opportunity to grow into the real thing after playing house? Looking back on our long time living together and digging through the edges of our memories, it's funny how nothing has truly changed.

A wife who quits her job saying, "I'm going to dye my hair blonde!" and pours her savings into "starting a theater troupe." A husband who, the moment after aspiring to be a white-painted drummer, starts collecting model guns. Our two paths have finally become one, with gachapon, bands, Legos, and filmmaking. Our serious play is picking up speed. When, where, and how will we become adults? Without the realization that I've become a wife, without the realization that we are a family, and without becoming parents. The days of just continuing to play together pile up healthily.

The balance of the savings we started together never increases. That's strange, we're a dual-income couple living together. Where is our money disappearing to? Two grown adults who can't even save 1 million yen. Even when I held the purse strings, they were loose, and even after I switched that role to my husband, they were still loose. While all that was happening, I got cancer, and I laughed, saying, "I had insurance, saved!" The 15 years we somehow managed to connect are truly a precarious tightrope walk. It's like skipping through pitch-black darkness while holding hands. If we slip, who knows where we'll tumble down to. But that path was never scary.

Even when I lost my job, even when my body started breaking down, even when I fought with friends, and even when I kept getting lost in a life I couldn't give up on, the body temperature I trust most in this world is right here. This isn't a shackle that binds us. The hand my left hand kept holding has always been warm.

By the way, in our home, there is a ritual that has continued ever since we got married. When we go to sleep at night, my husband tucks me in. In our house, we call this the "Bassa." Don't laugh and call it ridiculous; it's not just any ordinary tucking in. The way he, at 192cm tall, uses his long arms to "whoosh" the futon over me—it dances lightly through the air, gently wrapping up the room's atmosphere and softly enveloping me as I roll into bed. The comfort of it is just incredible. Every night, I even think that I might be happy even if I died right now.

By the way, when I performed the "Bassa" experience for a neighborhood elementary school student the other day, they laughed so hard I thought they might fall out of bed. I received an encore of "One more time! One more time!" and my nose was held high. Of course, of course. I get to have this all to myself every night.

A year has 365 days. Subtracting the days one of us is away from home, it's calculated that my husband performs the "Bassa" for me 300 times a year. That's 3,000 times in 10 years, and even subtracting the two years of my job transfer from the 15 years, that's roughly 4,000 times. Hoping to live another 30 years, that's a total of 13,000 times. I think to myself: 13,000 "Bassa" moments is nothing short of a miracle.

"Whoosh!"
"Awesome!!!"

"Whoosh!"
"Feels so goooood!!!"

"Whoosh!"
"Wheeee!!!"

The end of my day is wrapped in a flying futon. I should clarify that it's never done half-heartedly. If the position is even slightly off, we even do it over. When you think about it that way, it's more than 13,000 times. It really is a miracle. When I look up at the "Bassa" from bed, my husband is always smiling. I know that even while he says, "How long are you going to keep doing this?" he has no intention of stopping.

Playing house, playing house. Without a father role or a mother role ever appearing, our doll play continues, yours and mine. Where are we going today? What shall we play? Being by my side as a matter of course, talking as a matter of course. As I move the little dolls, I know that this is not a matter of course.

I remember a certain time in elementary school. I had been taking the train to cram school since the fourth grade, but I couldn't say a single word for three years to the "friend" my parents had presented to me, telling me to commute together. The time spent just staring out the window in silence while being rocked by the train. The long, long hour of just regretting myself as I stole glances at her vacant expression next to me. I, who couldn't find words to exchange with her, was a doll that couldn't speak. No voice came out, my breathing was tight. It's my fault, all of it, mine.

Just being by your side isn't enough. It's not like I can just be accepted automatically. I felt like an alien. I couldn't convey my words. I didn't know how to communicate either. A strange, incompatible creature. Even though I should belong to the Earthlings, mammals, and the Hominidae family, I couldn't understand other humans.

That's why I've worn so much equipment. Stiff protective suits. Shiny makeup. A mask with a smiley face pasted on it. I can't survive as a doll. That's what it means to be an adult. Understanding others is difficult. Communicating is difficult. I'm always timid about whether I'll be accepted.

"I'm gonna do the 'bassa' (flap), okay?"

I hear my husband's voice. I wonder if he's okay with me, no matter what I'm like.

"I wonder how many more times I'm gonna do this?"

I wonder if it's enough to just be by his side.

There is a guy who has kept doing the "bassa" 4,000 times to the real me, who wears no equipment at all. Rain or shine, whether I'm crying or angry, my place is here. It took 15 years. It took 4,000 times. No, actually, I should have just trusted him from the very first time. The only landmark in the darkness has always been my husband. If I ever lose my way, I will gladly fall into hell. I'll just wrap myself in our usual futon and laugh together until the very last moment.

We, who started out playing house, somehow became a family while still playing house. It took 15 years, and we finally saved up enough money. We were finally able to say to each other, "Shall we try going abroad together?" Finally, the time has come. My husband's laugh lines have become clear and deep, and as for me, well, I've become a bit round and saggy too, but it doesn't change, it doesn't change. Clutching a little doll, where shall we go together today?

"When you think of Vienna, you think of Sachertorte."

Ever since we decided to go on the trip, that's all he's been saying.

"You gotta install a translation app."

I'm terrified of not being able to communicate, so that's all I've been saying.

A honeymoon 15 years in the making. What kind of time will this trip be for us? Will we have even one fight? Will there be times when we find out each other's unknown weaknesses and are left dumbfounded? In a town as lovely as a toy, you and I will walk hand in hand.

We're newlyweds, after all. You'll do the "bassa" for me even on our trip, right?

It seems I love my husband to death.
Of course, I'm in my right mind.