I studied here for two years, chasing my master’s degree, dreams, and perhaps a better version of myself. Back then, life was measured in semesters, train schedules, and vending machine coffees at midnight. I came back a few times after graduation, each visit just long enough to feel the pulse of the country again. And then life moved on — as it does. Until now.
Walking through Shinjuku Station after a decade felt like stepping into an old photograph that had been digitally remastered. Everything was the same — and yet sharper, sleeker, more connected. The ticket gates I once fumbled through now recognized faces. The convenience stores had gone nearly cashless. Even the vending machines looked more sophisticated, flashing AI-driven recommendations as if they remembered me too.
Still, when I ordered a simple gyudon at my old neighborhood diner, the chef greeted me with the same warm “Irasshaimase!” that once meant “You belong here.” For a brief moment, I did.
And yet, not everything looked as I remembered. Shibuya Scramble Crossing, once an overwhelming ocean of people and lights, now seemed… smaller. Maybe it’s not the crossing that changed — maybe I just grew up.
Japan has always been a country of delicate balance — between tradition and technology, order and creativity. But returning after ten years, I realized the balance had tilted ever so slightly. The younger generation is bolder, more international; English appears where silence used to be. Prices that once felt impossibly high now seem almost reasonable — or perhaps it’s just that I’m no longer a student counting coins at the register.
And yet, temples still stand quietly amid the neon. The rhythm of trains, the subtle politeness, the quiet sense of respect — all these small constants remind me that some things in Japan don’t change. They just mature gracefully, like old whisky or faded calligraphy.
Can you feel homesick for a country that was never truly yours? I think you can. Because homesickness isn’t about borders — it’s about belonging. It’s about the places that shaped you when you were still becoming someone. For me, Japan isn’t just a memory; it’s a mirror. It reminds me who I was when I was curious, uncertain, and endlessly alive.
When I left, I thought I was saying goodbye to a place. Now I understand I was saying goodbye to a version of myself. And somehow, both of us — Japan and I — have changed.
As I boarded the train to Narita, I caught my reflection in the window: older, calmer, maybe a bit wiser. Tokyo’s skyline blurred behind me like ink in water. I didn’t feel like a tourist, nor quite a local. Just someone returning to where his story once paused.
And that, perhaps, is the most beautiful kind of journey — not to discover a new place, but to rediscover the old one within yourself.
