What does the human spirit long for? Meaning? Purpose? Yes, many intangible entanglements, but among these, one craving stands foremost—embedded deep within the essence of humanity, nestled within the steady pulse that governs life's stability. A romanticism. A hopelessness. In their confluence lies a curse, a deficiency that no worldly comfort can fill: the need for human connection and its most esteemed derivative, love.
Many misfortunes lie in the deprivation of this enchantment, their consequences most potent in the formative stages of development. Suffice it to say, poets and philosophers may have been better caretakers, for they hardly overlook this oldest of circumstances—this illness of the heart that cannot be medicated.
The rendition of love most sought is the iteration encompassed in sighs and pinings. Hopelessly beautiful, yet beautifully dreadful is the naivety in which the tragic hero toils, a heart most vulnerable to deception.
What, then, shall be fate of the hopeless romantic—one so beautifully entrenched in tragedy?
Life is a bitter sweet composition—an anthology of experiences, each distinct, offering a multiplicity of sensations and depths. It is, simultaneously, a compendium of fragility and a curation of resilience. Among its most underappreciated qualities is its boundless nature, exemplified in humanity—lives intertwining in countless, intricate arrangements, weaving themselves into the fabric of one another, expanding the grand tapestry of existence. This I have found, basking in the exuberant warmth of the sun, delighting in the soft melancholy of grey skies and rain, and perpetually immersed in scenes tinged with lasting joy and sorrow, all within the pages of a book.
Of my own contentment, in alignment with the many authors I so frequently admire, is the setting in which I partake in such an activity—a tranquil refuge, reigning peacefully in defiance of the city's inflexible rhythm: a coffee shop nestled in the Koganei area of Tokyo, Anteiku.
The solace I found at Anteiku was unparalleled. For one such as myself—far more at ease in the company of a book than in the throngs of bustling crowds—discovering this haven felt akin to stumbling upon a secret realm enclosed from the chaos of the world.
Within its walls, the air was richly infused with the tireless aroma of roasted coffee beans, blending delicately with the soft murmurs of patrons—souls content in their solitude, yet flourishing in the nuanced comfort of companionship. The chime of the swinging door, the spirited hiss of the machines, and the measured pour of coffee composed a subtle orchestra that magnified the pleasures of calm living.
My heart is indelibly set here. Here, I turn innumerable pages with deliberate devotion, relishing each caress of my fingertips against their texture as I gaze upon inspired ink—delighted, terrified, swept away into foreign landscapes. With each sip of coffee, my spirit is renewed for every new and ongoing journey.
In the heart, cherished memories build the home most fondly frequented.
Yet, despite the flag I have raised in declaration of this impenetrable castle—a home more home than my own, my lasting fortress—there comes a being set to usurp its throne: a young lady, undoubtedly beautiful, but whose lasting impression will reside in a shared passion for literature. A romantic's fortress does not require brute force to penetrate its defenses. No, it does not fall to ferocious displays of violence, but to passing thought, a fleeting glance—subtle insignias of a girl, a far more formidable force requiring an entirely different set of tools to properly engage. In many respects, far more perilous to confront unprepared.
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I passed her one evening on my way home from Anteiku, my eyes lingering upon her for a moment too long. Hers was a natural beauty of refined poise, radiant elegance—a once-in-a-lifetime vision, unrepeatable. In that moment, I regarded her as nothing more than that, a passing marvel, a sight to note but destined to fade into memory. Yet, to my welcome surprise, the following day brought with it a second encounter. Ushered in by the chime of Anteiku's swinging door, she stepped into the café, her presence undiminished—a statement piece untouched by the passage of time. And then, as though by logical consequence, with a manner befitting her effortless grace, she took her place among the coffee grains.
Destiny weaves, coincidence is bereft of charm. So weave yourself into the chambers of my heart.
The cadence of routine followed, each of our mornings marked by overlapping coffee orders, polite remarks, and a measured progression of what now appeared to be deliberate, drawn-out glances. Nothing more. Anything beyond that would have been unnecessary. While true that I admired her beauty—a rare bloom among a garden of softer hues, distinct enough to warrant appreciation and inspire admiration—such sentiments alone were insufficient to compel me to lay myself bare, to unbar the gates of my heart, and shower her with unbridled attention.
As if answering my private resolution, her occasional smiles remained unrepelled, unaffected by my stubborn restraint. An unspoken play began to unfold between us, unacknowledged yet undeniably present. Returning my focus to the latest book I had become enamored with, I faltered, arrested by a double take as she drew from her purse a copy of Sen Takatsuki's latest work—a mirror to the very volume resting in my hands.
Hidden in plain sight, she had been carefully laying the groundwork for this discreet, disarming gesture—a Trojan horse concealed in crafted indifference. It was this shared affinity for the written word that began to weave the strands of my existence inevitably closer to hers.
Discretion, impression, the whispers of a more sophisticated approach with which to appeal.
Certainly, few things could ever displace me from my readings. I am devout, an unwavering adherent to the faith of simile and metaphor. My commitment to prologue and epilogue is enduring; I neither miss them nor forsake them, for they are not made to suffer my absence. Each word I have glimpsed, each phrase uttered in reverence of the original author's intent, binds the manifold meanings and sentiments that construct the language inspiring the spirit within me. For all its brilliance and splendor, through it, my iniquity is exposed: the inability to confront life directly, unadorned and unembellished.
Do not think me without virtue or conviction, should my thoughts stray to this young woman, rather than remain resolutely fixed in prayer. I have been fervently faithful, unfailing in submission to both decorated prose and pentameter. Can she, then, be an harbinger of death, come to dissuade me from that which I have long held onto? No, I have not wavered—though my heart, perhaps distracted, cannot see beyond this hurried adoration. For what renders her so captivating, the very reason I have forsaken disinterest, is the very faith I hold. A fellow believer, she walks within the same framework of belief, in similar timing and routine.
I longed to connect, to share my passions with her—to speak of the lines that enrapture my soul and to hear her recite her own cherished verses, compulsively committed to memory. How ardently I wished to know the subjects of her fascination, the themes through which she glimpsed her innermost self, emerging all the more enriched for it. I observed, with equal care, the manner in which she tucked her hair behind her ear, as I did the moments when she tarried over a particular page, turning back to reread, pausing as though captive by reverie. To my lament, I lacked the courage to act; I am ever the keeper, ever the bearer, of that most tragic affliction—introversion. And so, as we both continued to frequent Anteiku, a subdued but impetuous yearning began to take root within me—a wistful hope, fragile yet persistent, for the possibility of becoming something more than momentary strangers.
If the fragility, the vanity, of that transitory passion which marks early infatuation, the tender impulse of affection newly born, be ever transcended, a more intimate truth is revealed—an ancient craving for human connection: to know, and to be known in return.
In the collective moments we will occupy the same space, I will burn. A longing, a waiting, awaiting an ache that knows no rest. In instinctive cues to bridge the chasm between us, she will direct, compose, conduct the most likely circumstance. One desire embeds itself further into the threads of our lives—to have our hands meet and the rest of us be broken.