If Things Had Been Different

Something a little mysterious happened recently. I had a reunion with someone unforgettable, after 30 long years.

Last month, I happened to open an old email account and found a surprising message. The sender was a man I had met three decades ago in the mountains, more than 700 kilometers away from Tokyo. His message said, “I came across an old printed photo of you. If you’d like, I can send it to you.” The unexpected note made me feel nostalgic, and I gladly accepted. That was the beginning of an exchange that transcended time.

When we first met, we were in our early twenties. I had run into some trouble deep in the mountains and was at a loss, when he kindly helped me. He was strikingly handsome, and the impression he left on me was strong. But the distance between us was too great. After a short exchange of letters and phones, our contact faded away.

Thirty years passed. Now, both in our fifties, we were able to reconnect thanks to our smartphones. At first, I thought it would just be a casual phone call to catch up on the past. But then he surprised me by saying, “Do you have time? I’ll come to Tokyo the day after tomorrow.”

Considering it takes three hours one way by Shinkansen (bullet train) and the tickets are quite expensive, his determination was clear. I sensed there must be a reason behind it, so I agreed to meet.

When he appeared at Tokyo Station, he still carried the same look from his youth, though he had become even more distinguished. Then he confessed something I had never expected. As improbable as it sounded, there had been a chance I might have become his wife—long before I ever met my ex-husband.

Of course, life didn’t turn out that way. I married someone else, only to be abandoned, and spent nearly 20 years carrying a deep, unresolved anger. To my surprise, he revealed that he had secretly read my distressed online writings back then, quietly following the traces of my life over the years.

Now, he lives with his wife in his hometown. (Yes, I realize coming to Tokyo alone to meet another woman is questionable—I wish he had told me about his marriage at the beginning.) Still, even in the impulsive decision to come to Tokyo, I could sense from his words and demeanor that he truly cherishes his wife of many years. It was heartwarming to discover that side of him.

At the same time, my feelings were complicated. I couldn’t help but wonder: could I have lived a different life? If I had been with him, maybe I wouldn’t have been abandoned. Maybe I would have known a more peaceful kind of happiness.

But then again, probably not. I’ve always chosen the landmines to step on. In a way, it was better that I didn’t drag him into my chaos.

Even so, when I imagine him now, treasuring his wife, I feel strangely happy myself. Because it lets me believe that, had I been with him, I too might have been protected in that same gentle way.

And so, my wish for him is simple: to continue cherishing his wife. That is what I truly want for him, and I will quietly keep hoping for their happiness from a distance.