I Miss Love That's Like Junk Food

The usual living room. In front of me, the person I chose to be with because I loved them is relaxing on the sofa, and inside my swollen belly is a life form—not yet known to be a girl or a boy—that we created together.

I never imagined such a reality would come to me.
If I could tell my younger self, she would surely be surprised.

Back then, I was constantly, desperately seeking to be loved by someone. But it had to be someone I also liked, otherwise it felt meaningless.

Why couldn't I make such a simple thing work... I would fret over it every single day.

On the surface, I think I looked like a fulfilled, active person in my twenties, and I don't think that was a lie. But whether I was working or hanging out with friends, there was always a sense of emptiness somewhere. It felt as if the scenery of my daily life was always tinged with gray.

It wasn't that nothing happened at all; it was precisely because I had various half-hearted experiences and things I almost grasped that the emptiness grew even more.

Those episodes now feel like memories of someone else's life.

So much time has passed that it's reached a level where it's ambiguous whether they were reality or just delusions. But in those moments when I recall them instinctively, they are packed with a strange, heart-fluttering excitement that I can no longer obtain.

A night in Kagurazaka. A Friday, when he was likely out drinking with someone else. There was a person who would only contact me when he happened to be near my place. When he would suddenly send a message late at night asking, "Can I come over today?" I should have just pretended not to notice and left it unread.

I was happy that there was someone who wanted to see me. And since it was a Friday night when my heart felt liberated, I also had a desire to feel something out of the ordinary.

I had noticed the message long ago, but I felt annoyed if I replied right away. "I heard someone say you shouldn't reply immediately~♪" The background music in my head was that nostalgic Yui song.

"Just let me know when you're done."

In the end, I couldn't wait very long, and after a few minutes, I replied with the most indifferent tone I could muster.

The time spent waiting for him at home after that was a strange sensation, a mix of frustration at being controlled by him and curiosity about what would happen that night.

At the moment when an emotion that could be called neither nervousness nor excitement was about to explode,

"Ding-dong."

The apartment doorbell rang. Even though I knew exactly who was visiting—or rather, precisely because I knew—my heart raced the moment I opened the door.

"Excuse me."

In his hand was a familiar "Dean & DeLuca" bag. Without knowing if he just happened to have it or if he had prepared it for me, I invited him in, and the answer was revealed immediately.

A bottle of wine pulled from a bag, and two muffins. I can understand the wine, which we were clearly about to start drinking again. But muffins? It felt so out of place for something to eat right then.

I still can't forget the thrill I felt when I suddenly sensed the possibility of the "next morning." There was no boundary between the night deepening with wine and the morning beginning with muffins. I suppose I can never return to that ambiguous world where the lines were so enchantingly invisible.

A night in Ebisu. Not under the guise of a "date," but just a senior and junior colleague case of "let's go get a drink."

If I recall, we ordered various things, mostly fish dishes, at a Japanese restaurant with an unpretentious atmosphere. We both liked beer and drank it often, but I'm a lightweight, so I'd get drunk quickly.

I'm not sure if I was just drunk, or if we both were. But if that airy, floating feeling between us hadn't been there, we surely wouldn't have headed to the next place.

A taxi was hailed with the words, "I have a favorite bar," I was put inside, and we were whisked away to our next destination. Everything proceeded automatically before I could even think, yet strangely, I felt no anxiety or doubt.

A hand was placed on mine while we were heading to our destination, and before I knew it, our hands were joined. The fact that I didn't find any of it strange... I'm sure that was the alcohol's doing.

After arriving at our destination, we stumbled up a narrow staircase. I realized from snippets of the staff's words that it was her regular bar. Even so, I still haven't forgotten that light, floating sense of happiness from that time.

A night in Shibuya. A craft beer place a short walk from the station. The inside had a casual, lively atmosphere, perfect for dropping in for a drink with someone you feel comfortable with.

Whether that person was someone I felt "comfortable" with... well, that was a different story. It had been so long since we'd met that I felt if we didn't choose a place with that kind of atmosphere, I'd be too nervous to hold a proper conversation.

We talked a lot during our student days, and there were several opportunities to gather with everyone. But thinking about it now, it might have been the first time we'd had a slow drink together, just the two of us.

To be precise, there were many chances. Even when we promised to drink together, it was always canceled at the last minute. I think we just gradually drifted apart without either of us saying anything.

I think the power of alcohol to blur such awkward pasts is amazing. Once we started ordering our favorite craft beers one after another and downing them, the conversation flowed strangely well.

I don't remember much of the conversation, but I couldn't let the line, "Actually, I liked you back then," which was said in passing, go unheard. I think I just replied, "I felt the same, but it's too late now," and went back to talking about nothing in particular.

The hand that was held as we left the bar and walked down the hill on the way home might have been proof of a "one-day-only mutual love."

But as the station drew closer, our hands let go, and they were never joined again. I still think sometimes that "limited edition" things are always dazzling and possess a strange power.

Like eating cup ramen when you usually wouldn't, but deciding to go for it today! Those thrills that only last for that one day and provide no real nourishment.

As I get older, it becomes natural to wish to live a healthy life, and the opportunities to eat unhealthy things have decreased.

Even so, I suddenly remember that fruitless deliciousness, and perhaps even now, there are times when I might crave it intensely or find it delicious.

But that is surely a story of the past, and that is why.

The more I clung to 'things that imitated love,' the more I felt my own self-worth diminish. But being wanted by someone, even just for that moment, made me happy, and I couldn't stop.

Since I have finally, finally escaped from that suffering and am where I am now.

I want to believe that the world I am in now is the right one.

Every time I look at my growing belly and face the current 'reality,' memories like junk food that are out of reach suddenly come back to me. Even so.

Because I think that repeating the act of wanting what I cannot have and moving forward is what 'living' is all about.

Just as the unhealthy things I ate back then shine now, I believe that the painful or fruitless things of today might become something I long for in the future.

Try eating everything, from nutritious food to junk food.

I hope to become someone who knows both the bitter and the sweet.

It seems like it will still take time to become truly delicious... but aiming to be a person with depth, I will continue to eat this and that while living on with the people who are truly important to me.